


static electricity, dreaming of lightning

by blackkat



Category: Marvel (Comics), Moon Knight (Comics), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassinations as Romantic Gestures, Clones, Dimension Travel, Dream Sharing, Fix-It, Friendship, Humor, Kidnapping, M/M, Romance, Soulmates, discussion of slavery, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21826273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Adrift in a strange universe, Marc gets hired to take out a Jedi general. He agrees, even knowing it won't be an easy mission. What he doesn't expect is the interference of one Commander Cody, which throws him into a tailspin and sets off a cascade of events that absolutely no one could have predicted.At least Khonshu is having one hell of a time.
Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody & CT-7567 | Rex, CC-2224 | Cody/Marc Spector, CC-6454 | Ponds/Mace Windu, Obi-Wan Kenobi/CT-7567 | Rex, Slick & Marc Spector
Comments: 326
Kudos: 1599
Collections: Captain Rex Stuff, Randomness





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently the Tumblr anon who inspired _in labyrinths of reflections_ has almost precisely the same taste in fics as me, because they left me another prompt that proceeded to _eat my brain_. I have no idea where exactly this is going beyond a few plot points I definitely want to hit, but when have I ever. 
> 
> This story contains no character bashing, but it's going to be critical in parts of certain attitudes towards clones. It is Jedi-positive, though, despite misconceptions characters start out with.

Being a bounty hunter’s starting to become more trouble than it’s worth, Marc thinks.

He doesn’t move, of course. This whole messed-up galaxy’s home now, or something like it, and even if he’s working for people he’d rather kill than shake hands with, he’s usually taking out even worse people. It’s enough to keep Khonshu happy, and it’s enough to keep Marc flying, which is just fine with him.

“Moon Knight,” his newest client says, cold and silky. Something about the way she moves makes Marc think of Black Widow, but—that’s where the similarities end. Natasha, for all her past, was a good person. From everything he’s heard, this woman doesn’t get to claim that title.

“Ventress,” he counters, and doesn’t look at the droids with her. No hearts in them, and Khonshu doesn’t like that. She’s got a heart, though, and it’s almost wicked enough to make Marc's hand twitch towards his blaster.

Ventress’s eyes flicker to the not-quite motion, then slide up, and she smiles thinly. “Relax. The droids are merely insurance.”

Marc snorts, deliberately resting his hand on the butt of the blaster. There’s a crescent dart up his sleeve, and they're standing on a moon; there’s no need for him to even _think_ about the droids. Ventress might put up more of a fight, but not by much. “That scared the Republic’s going to find you?” he asks, pointed. “ _Relax_. We’re in Hutt space.”

Ventress’s gaze narrows. “I’ve heard about your mouth,” she says, and there's a threat in the words. “You might want to take care, Moon Knight. Your value as an assassin only stretches my patience so far.”

Not far at all, Marc would think. She’s angry, in a low, deep-seated way that only worsens with time. He could push, but—there are more interesting things to get to. He hums, looking her over, and doesn’t so much as twitch as bony hands settle over his shoulders.

“ ** _I want her heart, my son_** ,” Khonshu hisses, ragged and hungry, like Marc hasn’t been glutting him on hearts since he dumped Marc here three years ago. He’s a vast thing, standing on a moon, with hundreds of thousands of moons spinning through the galaxy around them, recognized and named. With hundreds of deaths behind him, too, all in his name. Republic and Separatist alike, because there’s no shortage of people here that the galaxy would be better off without.

When Marc yelled at Khonshu, back in their world, that he should drop Marc in a target-rich environment if he wanted more hearts, this definitely wasn’t what he was imagining would happen.

Ignoring the god hanging on his shoulder like a cranky toddler, Marc looks Ventress over, then says, pointed drawl, “The mouth comes along with the blaster, sorry. You want someone dead, you hire both.”

Ventress curls her lip, like she’s smelling something nasty. “I do indeed want someone dead. The job will be difficult, but given your resume I see no reason why you can't accomplish it.”

Difficult. Marc eyes her, not liking the sound of that. Usually when a client says that, they actually mean impossible, and while Khonshu's more powerful here than he ever was back home, Marc's no Scarlet Witch.

“Give me a name,” he says, because if she’s not willing to do that with a contract, he’ll take his blaster rifle elsewhere. There’s no shortage of clients in the middle of a war, and he’s been burned more than once taking a contract before learning the target. 

Ventress snorts, sharply amused, and the curve of her mouth is almost unnerving. “As you know,” she says, “the Republic’s forces are comprised almost entirely of clone soldiers at this point.”

Marc frowns faintly behind the cover of his mask and hood. “Everyone knows that,” he retorts. “I'm assuming you have a point?”

Ventress tips her head. “You have a reputation, Moon Knight. You support causes, despite your line of work.”

“Because of my line of work,” Marc bites out, and feels more than hears Khonshu's low, rasping laugh at his shoulder. “Everyone needs something to believe in.”

It’s easy to see the flicker of contempt that crosses Ventress’s face. “Three months ago, you killed a man who was stealing near-death clones from the battlefield for slaves,” she says, and Marc goes still, staring at her narrowly from beneath the edge of his hood. He had, and it had been a contract by a rival slave-trader who didn’t like the new flood of bodies for his competitor, but—

It was a contract Marc didn’t have any problem completing, and he doesn’t regret anything except the fact that it didn’t come in earlier.

“What about it,” he says flatly.

“One of several such jobs you’ve taken, despite the pay being less than your standard. You have a fondness for clones,” Ventress says bluntly. “It’s been noticed.”

“I have a fondness for freedom of choice,” Marc counters. “Get to the point.”

Ventress smiles like she’s won something. “The man I want you to kill is fully complicit in the death of clones on the battlefield. He’s furthering the system of slave armies for the Republic, without hesitation and without regret. He and those like him stand in the way of the clones being recognized as human and treated with the dignity they deserve.”

Bullshit, Marc thinks, unimpressed. She doesn’t believe a word of what she just said, and Marc's fully aware that it’s a manipulation tactic. “Name,” he says, and makes it an order just for the way she stiffens ever so faintly, anger rising.

“Your target is General Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Ventress says after a long moment, and her lips are thin, but she meets his gaze squarely. “I assume you don’t need me to provide a file.”

Marc freezes, fingers tightening on his blaster. That’s…not what he was expecting. One of the cloners, maybe, for all they’ve stayed under the radar. A senator pushing to deny clones rights, potentially. But not—

“A Jedi,” he says. “You want me to kill a Jedi.”

“If you want to free the clones, you need to kill the masters,” Ventress says, smiling. He wants to carve the expression off her face, just as he did with Bushman. “The Republic relies on the Jedi to control the clones. Without the Jedi…” She spreads her hands, then twists one, producing a datachip with deft sleight of hand. When she offers it to him, Marc can see in her face that she thinks she’s already won his agreement. “Who knows?”

Marc's kept to himself; this galaxy isn't a place for superheroes, and he wouldn’t be effective just working in one place, the way he did in New York. That doesn’t mean he’s stupid, though; he knows who the Jedi are. They might have been peacekeepers once, but now they're generals, leading the Republic armies.

Armies of clones. Men created just to fight and die. Marc really, _really_ doesn’t like that part.

He considers Ventress for a long, long moment. He’s fought for both sides, because there are wicked people in both camps. He’s killed senators and commanders and suppliers, but—not a general. Not yet.

“Kenobi’s battalion has seen more combat than most,” Ventress says softly, like it’s supposed to be a killing blow. “How many men do you think he’s lost? Whatever number you assume, I assure you, the reality is far higher.”

“ ** _Her heart_ ,**” Khonshu says, and Marc is absolutely certain that if he looks over his shoulder, he’ll see a faceless Bushman instead of the falcon-headed god. He doesn’t look back.

“If you want me to take out a Jedi general, you’d better be ready to pay for it,” he says flatly, and Ventress smiles.

“The Count is prepared to offer you three times your normal fee,” she says. “Though we were hoping the…implications of this job would interest you.”

“Interest me enough to lower my price?” Marc raises a brow, then inclines his head, reaching out to take the datachip. “Deadline?”

“Soon.” Ventress leans in, like she’s trying to see beneath the hood, but when Marc just narrows his eyes at her, she laughs. “You had best hurry, Moon Knight, if you don’t want more clones to die for Kenobi.”

Marc scoffs, but he turns, crossing the landing pad without looking back. Ventress is watching him; he can feel the itch of her eyes on the back of his neck, and he debates again turning around and going for her. He’s seen her move; she’s overconfident, easy to anger. It wouldn’t be his hardest kill.

He doesn’t, though. Ventress is ready, and she has droids around her. The datachip is a weight in Marc’s hand, too, and he curls his fingers around it as he climbs the ramp into his small ship.

Khonshu is waiting, statue-like in the shadows with only glowing eyes to mark him. Marc passes him as the doors hiss shut, pulls off his hood and then his mask, and breathes out.

“I'm got giving you Ventress’s heart,” he says. “ _Yet_. She’s still useful.”

Khonshu's laugh is silver and bones, too real for the little ship. “ ** _Acceptable_** ,” he says. “ ** _For now, provided you haven’t lost your taste for punishment, my son_**.”

Slowly, deliberately, Marc sinks into the pilot’s chair, twisting his mask between his fingers. “There are too many people to punish here,” he says flatly. Once Khonshu drove him to kill every mugger and petty criminal who crossed their path; now there are so many to get rid of that Marc can't even begin to keep up. Having the population of a galaxy instead of a city to deal with probably helps, but—

The war helps, too.

“Ventress is working for Count Dooku,” Marc says. “The more business I do with her, the closer I get to the count. That’s the heart I want to take.”

Khonshu is silent for a long moment, his gaze a weight in the shadows. “ ** _Justifying your own actions?_** ” he asks, amused. “ ** _How cute_**.”

Marc rolls his eyes, leaning back into the chair. Stares, for a long moment, at the crescent moon on his mask, then blows out a slow breath. “Ventress has a point about the generals,” he says, quiet. Take out a general and the army will pause while the role is refilled. Take out enough generals and there won't be anyone to lead the attacks. The clone armies will be stalled. Of course, to get the fighting to stop completely, he’ll have to take out the generals on the other side as well, but…it’s doable.

“ ** _The clones are very loyal to their Jedi,_** ” Khonshu observes, but he still sounds amused more than anything.

“Because they were _built_ that way,” Marc counters, and it itches under his skin, anger and frustration. A whole army created to fight and die, and Marc was a soldier once, too. He knows what war is like. To have people fighting who don’t have any say in their fate, who can't say no, who are perfectly obedient and don’t know to be another way—it makes his skin crawl.

The fault’s on the Galactic Senate, who voted to use them. The fault’s with the Jedi, who lead them. The sin sits at the feet of the cloners, whoever commissioned the army, whoever mobilized it. Maybe it’s because Marc has seen slavery and human trafficking, or because he’s had more than passing experience with serving a cruel master who doesn’t care about his life or death, but—

The minute he learned about the clone armies, something in him started to burn.

“ ** _They are travelers,_** ” Khonshu says, soft, sibilant in the darkness. “ ** _Hundreds of thousands of travelers, spread out across the galaxy. They guard moons, they heal, they fight. They are ours, even if they have yet to realize it. I am not surprised you feel for their plight, my son_**.”

“I am,” Marc says flatly, and scrubs a hand through his short hair. “I don’t—I haven’t _cared_ like this in…”

Years. Decades, maybe. Not since Sudan, a little village where Bushman lined up all the men and had them shot in the streets, forced the widows to dance for him. Something in Marc had rebelled, then, and it’s the same thing that turns with disgust now. The war is a massive machine, rolling forward, leaving bodies behind. If he could stop it singlehandedly, he would have done it already, but as it is, he has to content himself to picking off assholes on both sides, taking bounties on as many war profiteers and high-ranking idiots as he can.

In light of that, maybe this one’s no different.

“A Jedi,” he mutters to himself, and considers what he knows of them. Once peacekeepers, and he’s heard stories that they have strange powers, abilities not entirely unlike the heroes from his world.

“ ** _The Jedi are tap for the powers of the universe distilled_** ,” Khonshu says lazily, intent as a cat watching the birdcage’s door swing open. “ ** _But you, my son, are something different. Something other. You are_ mine.**”

Marc snorts, but doesn’t object. As long as Khonshu's got a steady supply of hearts, he’s not nearly as unbearable as he was back in their world. Not as cruel, either. Marc tried his best to rein himself in, in New York, but—

He’s got a god of justice in his head. Serving as judge, jury, and executioner doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it probably should.

“That mean you can hide me from them?” he asks, curious. Khonshu has made him invisible a handful of times, turned eyes away from him before, but Marc generally doesn’t need or want that kind of thing. He likes it when assholes see him coming. Still, for someone with this universe’s version of superpowers, he’s going to have to be a bit more careful than normal.

“ ** _I can_** ,” Khonshu confirms, and his eyes glow, bright moon-white as he watches Marc. “ ** _If you wish it, my son_**.”

He’s read that the Jedi can see the future, and that’s…not great where his odds of success are concerned. Marc huffs, dropping his mask on the empty seat beside him, and says, “Yeah. If Kenobi feels we’re coming, that’s fine, but I don’t want him to sense me in person until I've got a knife at his throat.”

Khonshu's chuckle vibrates metal as Marc starts the takeoff sequence, rolls through the ship and hums against Marc's bones. “ ** _My knight_** ,” he says, and it’s halfway between agreement and possession. When Marc glances over, the statue is plain stone again, unmoving, and he sighs and turns back to the controls.

The idea that it’s just his connection to Khonshu that makes him care about the clones sits wrong. _Is_ wrong, Marc is sure. Maybe it’s an influence, but he’d care either way. They're soldiers who have nothing else, not even the right to their own names. When he took out the slaver, Marc saw a handful of the clones he’d captured, and—

They might share a genetic template, might be trained the same way, but they're individuals. They're people with their own personalities and wants and beliefs. Same face, but nothing else, and that’s enough for Marc.

As soon as they’ve gotten clearance and are headed out of atmosphere, Marc calls up a search for any current information about Kenobi. It’s not hard to find—a war hero isn't exactly low-profile, even when he’s on the front lines. It barely takes ten minutes to figure out where he’s currently stationed, and to check who else is stationed there too. The 501st Legion, by the looks of it, to bolster the ranks of Kenobi’s 212th Attack Battalion. There's another Jedi in command of the 501st, another war hero, and Marc considers his face for a long moment before turning back to Kenobi. Kenobi’s former apprentice, so there’s likely lingering loyalty there. It might make itself a problem, if Skywalker is close when Marc goes in for the kill.

Of course, they're in the middle of mopping up from a battle right now. Christophsis is as quiet as it’s going to get, and the clone battalions have a few quiet moments. There are no other enemies on the planet, and if Marc's going to hit Kenobi outside of an active war zone, he needs to do it before the general packs up and moves.

Take out the general and the army’s stalled. He can get Kenobi, collect his bounty, and then find a Separatist general in need of a bullet between the eyes to even the playing field. If Ventress doesn’t know it’s him killing Separatists, she’ll have no reason not to hire him again. Enough jobs for her and he’ll have made himself valuable to Dooku, which is his main goal. Get close to Dooku, take him out, take out the Chancellor, and that will at the very least put a dent in the war.

Marc snorts, rubbing his hands over his face. Who would have thought that his days destabilizing countries would be helpful as a hero?

Nar Shaddaa falls away beneath them, and Marc sets the computer to bring them to Christophsis. It’s several days travel, but that will give him time to study maps, figure out a way in, plan his attack.

A thrum of amusement beneath his skin makes the receding glow of the moon seem brighter for just a moment. “ ** _Admit it, my son,_** ” Khonshu says beside his ear. “ ** _You were made for this universe._** ”

Marc doesn’t admit to anything. It’s a vast galaxy, an unfamiliar life, but…

It’s not unpleasant. Wild, dark, brilliant, in need of help, and here Marc can be that help. There are more problems, but there’s more space, too, and sometimes Marc stops and looks out and the stars, and—

It’s like he can breathe, deeper and clearer than he ever could on Earth. Khonshu dragging him here was petty, a bout of frustration, the culmination of a fight they’ve been having for years, but Marc has a suspicion that it’s a choice that saved both of them.

“I don’t have to admit anything to you, asshole,” he says, and the stars blur into the darkness of hyperspace all around them. Marc might be smiling, but he’s not about to admit that, either.

A sharp, indrawn breath and a sudden stillness in the body next to him has Cody's head jerking up from his reports, tension suddenly strung tight through every muscle. Jerking around, he looks over at his general, but Obi-Wan’s eyes are closed, his expression twisted faintly.

“General?” Cody asks. He hesitates, wanting to put a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder the way he would a brother’s, but he’s not sure if it would be welcome. Isn't sure what’s wrong, if it’s a Jedi thing, if it’s some sort of attack.

Slowly, deliberately, Obi-Wan opens his eyes. They're distant, fixed somewhere beyond the dusty command center, and the look on his face makes Cody want to reach for his blaster automatically.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Obi-Wan murmurs, and folds his arms across his chest, frowning.

“Sir?” Cody asks, still wary. The battle for Christophsis is over; there shouldn’t be more than a few pockets of droids left on the outer edges of the planet, and the 501st is taking care of them. He knows that, but—a Jedi’s instincts haven’t failed them yet.

Obi-Wan hesitates, then shakes his head. “Something is coming,” he says. “Something that doesn’t feel…friendly.”

Stifled alarm prickles down Cody's spine, and he reaches for his comm. “Torrent Company should be done with their sweep soon, sir,” he says. “I can call them back and have the ships do a long-range scan of the system—”

“Anakin is almost back,” Obi-Wan says, waving a hand, though he casts Cody a quick smile before his frown settles in again. “He doubtless felt it as well. A sweep of the system wouldn’t go amiss, but…I don’t think we’ll find the threat so easily.”

Unease is a weight in Cody's gut, and he takes a breath, lets it out slowly. Something Skywalker and Obi-Wan likely both felt? That doesn’t bode overly well for any of them.

“Yes, General,” he says, and steps back to relay the message.

Before he can retreat any further, though, Obi-Wan raises a hand. “Cody, before that—what is Slick’s status?”

Cody grimaces, glad his helmet hides it. “Contained, sir. He’s to be transferred to Admiral Yularen tomorrow morning. Should I halt the exchange?”

Obi-Wan hesitates, and Cody can see the conflict on his face, the weariness. Finding a traitor among Cody's brothers was a shock, and while they’ve kept the reasons Slick turned on them quiet, Cody can still see the impact of his accusations against the Jedi. Obi-Wan hasn’t slept much, since the battle. Skywalker’s been angrier, too. Cody can understand the sentiment. Both sentiments.

“No,” Obi-Wan says at length. “Let it go forward. Having Slick down here increases risk of his escape, and we shouldn’t risk it. He has…very much of Jango’s worst in him.”

“Yes, sir,” Cody agrees quietly, because he’s thought so too. All the clones are different, but…that’s not a good way to be different. Slick got too many brothers killed, all in the name of helping himself.

He retreats to the other side of the room to give Obi-Wan privacy while he makes a call up to the fleet, then runs a check through all the squads currently deployed, making sure nothing’s come up. Everything seems to be more or less peaceful on the front; the citizens of Christophsis have already started rebuilding, and Senator Organa is accepting another supply shipment at the spaceport. Now that the blockade’s broken, space traffic has resumed, and Cody quietly deploys another few units to run checks of incoming crafts, just in case. Asajj Ventress is gone, thankfully, but if she sneaks back down to the planet, tries to assassinate the senator while the planet is in Republic hands, it will turn into an incident, and that’s the last thing they need right now.

By the time he’s finished with that. Obi-Wan has been called away, likely to meet Skywalker, and a familiar clone is running checks of his own, standing over the console. As Cody shuts off his comm, Rex glances up, smirking.

“Looking a little tense there, vod,” he says.

“General Kenobi's got a bad feeling,” Cody says, and feels rather vindicated when Rex pulls a face. Obi-Wan doesn’t say things like that often, but when he does, it’s always best to listen.

“Skywalker was a little twitchy earlier, too,” Rex says, and sighs. “Bad that my mind goes right to another spy?”

Cody's been very carefully _not_ thinking about that possibility. “The generals didn’t know about Slick,” he says, because it’s the one shred of reasoning he’s been clinging to. “There’s no reason the Force would decide to warn them about one this time, right?”

“Who knows how the Force works,” Rex says with a shrug. “I'm not a Jedi.”

“Blast,” Cody says dryly. “And I had so many credits on you being one, too.” He rocks with the jab of Rex's elbow against his ribs, but doesn’t retaliate, reaching up to pull off his helmet instead. Christophsis’s air is clear, better than the recycled air on the ships, and he’d rather breathe it in while he has the chance. They’re not going to be here much longer; Obi-Wan and Skywalker are too valuable to leave on cleanup.

“Okay, vod?” Rex asks, more quietly.

Cody doesn’t answer for a long moment. He’s fine, physically; the 212th took casualties, but not as many as they could have if things had gone worse. But…

“Slick,” he says, and Rex looks away, out over the city. His shoulders are tense, and Cody bumps their pauldrons together lightly. “We’re loyal to the Republic,” he says, soft. “We’re loyal to the Jedi. They protect us whenever they can.”

“But you're still thinking about it,” Rex concludes.

He’s been, too, Cody is sure. “Yeah. It’s…the same kind of thing as thinking about what happens after.”

Rex doesn’t say anything for a long moment, keeps his eyes fixed out the window. “We’re soldiers,” he finally offers, and deliberately, deftly slides his helmet back on. “The odds of there being an _after_ for us aren’t great, Cody.”

Cody doesn’t know whether he means they won't survive until the end or the war, or whether he means that even if they do survive there will always be another war. He doesn’t want to know, either; if he doesn’t acknowledge it, it might itch less at the back of his mind. Thinking about after is useless. There's no telling what might come, no way to plan for it, and for once Cody isn't even going to try.

“I would follow General Kenobi to the end of the galaxy,” Cody says. Doesn’t waver in it, either. “It’s not because the Kaminoans built me that way. It’s because he’s a good man.”

Maybe he’s imagining it, but a little of the tension slides out of Rex's frame. “Yeah,” he says, and even if he’s got his bucket on, Cody can still hear the relief in his voice. “General Skywalker’s saved my ass more than once. I would follow him just for that. And for the fact that he makes sure as many of the men come back as possible.”

Reaching out, Cody claps him lightly on the shoulder. “Exactly. Come on, let’s hit the mess. If something’s coming, I don’t want to face it on an empty stomach.”

“Real food while we’re planet-side,” Rex says, and it’s almost cheerful. “You don’t have to twist my arm.”

“No, just keep you from eating everything in sight.”

“Don’t mix me up with Boil, asshole.”

“At least Boil’s face doesn’t make kids cry.”

Rex tries to put him in a headlock, but Cody's always been better at hand-to-hand. He grapples Rex down, gets an arm around his neck as he curses viciously, drags his bucket off, and grinds his knuckles into the top of Rex's bleach-blond hair.

“Move quicker, vod,” he taunts, and it’s enough to let him pretend that nothing else is wrong in the galaxy, just for a few seconds.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a _labyrinths_ update, sorry, because I'm still trying to rewrite some 3k that Word ate like the cannibalistic asshole program it is. Hopefully this will make up for at least some of the delay?

Christophsis is one of the prettier planets Marc's found himself on recently, even if it’s war-torn. The spaceport’s mostly in one piece, too, though he can see armored figures in white close to the edges. Clones, and the sleek white amor is almost nostalgic; practicality made Marc switch back to his black undersuit with white armor and cloak, but the clone troopers’ similarity to the regular Moon Knight suit doesn’t escape him.

“Please register with a clone trooper at your earliest convenience,” the woman who guided him in says over the comm. “If you fail to register, your ship will be seized and searched.”

“Got it,” Marc says, faintly annoyed, and switches the comm off when she doesn’t have anything else to say. He doesn’t like leaving a record, but being able to land in the same city Kenobi is stationed in makes his life a hell of a lot easier, so he’ll put up with it for now. He’d debated going in as Steven Grant, but Steven's got a lot of business back on Coruscant. Linking him to the assassination of a Jedi in any way will do more harm than good, though, and the same for Jake with his trading connections in the Outer Rim. Marc can handle this himself, and bear the hot water that will probably result.

The cloak and hood and mask are for jobs and meeting clients, too visible when Marc's just scouting a place. Instead, Marc slips out in a long-haul pilot’s simpler clothes, head ducked against the light of the setting sun. There's a full moon in the sky that draws his attention, and from inside his head he can feel Khonshu's flicker of delight and amusement. It’s a large moon, larger than Earth’s, and Marc eyes it for a moment before dragging his attention back down to the spaceport. He’ll have even less trouble than he expected, given that moon.

“Registering, sir?” a voice asks behind him, and Marc controls his twitch and turns, coming face to face with a clone trooper. His armor is mostly white, but there’s a diamond pattern on the side of his helmet, and he’s carrying a datapad.

“Yeah,” Marc says quietly. “For two nights. Need the registration numbers?”

“If you wouldn’t mind. Cargo logs, too, if you’re carrying anything.” The clone hands him the pad, and Marc enters the numbers in quickly, signs his name when it’s prompted, and hands it back.

“All quiet, now?” Marc asks, tipping his head towards a bombed-out building.

“Yes, sir.” The clone snorts, and it sounds faintly bitter in a way that catches Marc's attention. “All the enemies have been dealt with or run off. You should be fine as long as you keep away from the damaged buildings.”

“Thanks.” Marc doesn’t linger, but gives the clone a nod and steps away, pausing at the edge of his ship and pulling up a map of the city. It’s for show, mostly; all of his attention is on the clone as he uploads Marc's information. There’s another trooper approaching, blue streaks down the chin of his helmet, and when he steps up beside the first clone, he bumps shoulders with him.

“Staying sane, Jester?” the second asks.

Jester snorts, but he lowers the pad for a long moment. “What’s _sane_ ,” he asks flatly. “Our commander just betrayed the Republic, no one knows, and we’re stuck guarding the ‘port for who knows how long. If you're sane, Gus, it means something’s wrong with you.”

Marc pauses, eyes narrowing. A clone commander betraying the Republic? Or do they mean a regular army commander? If it was a clone—

Well. That would be interesting, wouldn’t it?

“They can’t afford to keep us on shiny duty for long, vod,” Gus says. It’s not cheerful, but there's a thread of tired hope in it. “As soon as we get another sergeant—”

“Because we’ve got such a good track record now,” Jester says bitterly. When Gus just looks at him, he sighs, loud over the speakers in his helmet. “Who’s going to want to take Slick’s squad? And whoever we get, we’re not going to like. Slick might as well have named us traitors, too. Our own brothers won't trust us.”

“They’re keeping it quiet, what Slick did,” Gus says. “Maybe no one else will know.”

“Like that’s _better_.”

Gus huffs out a breath. “Come on, vod, we’ve got more slimy space merchants to talk to.”

“My favorite.” Jester turns away, and they head back across the spaceport to the rest of their squad, collected near the base of the control tower.

Marc watches them go out of the corner of his eye, not looking up from his map. That’s definitely interesting, and he considers for a moment, then heads out of the spaceport and into the surrounding streets, sharp with the gleam of glass and chrome.

“ ** _Caught the scent of something, my knight?_** ” Khonshu asks, shimmering into view at his elbow when he pauses to get his bearings.

“A clone betrayed the Republic,” Marc says flatly, and glances left, then right, and turns towards the Republic base. It’s not too far distant from the port, and even if he can't get in quite yet, he can scout the edges and find a path.

Khonshu snickers, and his image shifts. He’s suddenly leaning over Marc's shoulder, watching a squad of clones escort a vehicle towards the city’s center. Marc looks too, taking note of patterns on helmets and painted onto armor, the different colors, the different styles. Individualism, in a collection of people who all share the same face. He can't understand how anyone could write them off as non-sentient beings, and doesn’t want to; getting his head that far up his ass is sure to be almost impossible.

“ ** _Betrayed?_** ” Khonshu asks, and his amusement is shards of glass, ready to draw blood. “ ** _Or rebelled?_** ”

“That’s the question, isn't it?” And it’s a pretty damning one, for the Republic, Marc thinks. He studies the squad of clones with narrowed eyes for a moment, then says, “If he betrayed his commanding officers, it could be for a selfish reason. Maybe someone paid him off.”

Khonshu hums, lazy and heavy over Marc's skin. He’s _interested_. “ ** _Of course. But perhaps it’s not a selfish reason. The only way to find out is to ask him, my son._** ”

“Yeah, yeah.” Marc scowls at the street, willing the army base to give up its secrets, but…

He’s good at ferreting things out, and he knows how armies work. If this Sergeant Slick is accused of treason, he’s going to be held somewhere secure, probably transferred to the nearest military court at the first opportunity. If Marc can sneak in to see him, he can see why he did it, and work from there.

If it _wasn’t_ for a selfish reason, Marc's not about to let him get bounced into a biased court without at least trying to do something about it.

Well. Detention cells are generally pretty easy to find in an army base, regardless of its location. Marc was _planning_ to go in, slice a few computers so he could track Kenobi's movements, and get out again, but apparently that will have to wait a day. He’s got more pressing things to see to tonight.

Being invisible is the opposite of how Marc usually operates, but he’s willing to admit it’s convenient enough for things like this. With Khonshu's power curled around him like a personal force field, he walks into the base like he’s supposed to be there, following a returning patrol. He’s not sure if there are Jedi in residence, but there probably are—it’s a field command center, and they’re generals. Either Kenobi or Skywalker or both are likely here.

Marc's got a plan, but if he happens to find Kenobi in a vulnerable moment, he won't hesitate to take the shot, either. Most of Marc's plans degrade to _punch them really hard and hope it works_ by the time he’s done, anyway, so he might as well accept that.

The Grand Army of the Republic at least gets a nice base; it’s all sleek white and twisting corridors, and Marc passes several rooms that look promising for his plan of getting into the system. No Jedi, at least not yet—there are a handful of clones in dusty armor who pass as Marc presses himself up against the wall, joking about a near suicide-run Skywalker took a squad on to break the blockade, but no sign of the man himself. It’s a shame, Marc thinks coldly; if he can take out Skywalker, Kenobi as his teacher will end up off guard, emotional, prone to mistakes.

It will also put the GAR down another leader. To balance it Marc will have to hit the Separatists twice, but it’s not like he _objects_ to that.

As the clones disappear down the hall and turn, steps fading, Marc stays where he is for a long moment, listening. It’s night, and the base is quiet, but there are plenty of guard rotations. Too many to pin down where the holding cells are just from that. Marc probably doesn’t have time to search the whole base on foot, though.

“Khonshu?” he asks, tipping his head.

The shadows cast by the too-bright lights stir like a living thing. Khonshu is a creature of light, but not these lights, and his image forms in the darkness, shadows rising to form the negative space image of a face, a body.

“ ** _Enjoying yourself, my son?_** ” Khonshu asks, all cutthroat amusement and languid intent.

Marc snorts, but eyes him for a moment. “How’s that sense of yours about traitors?” he asks.

Khonshu doesn’t answer for a long beat. “ ** _You seek one traveler out of thousands_** ,” he says.

“He’s probably not traveling much right now,” Marc mutters, but he sighs. Khonshu is a god; he pays attention to human lives the way a human might to ants, even when they amuse him. Marc's got slightly more interest as a butterfly Khonshu's pinned to a card, but his area of influence is still relatively narrow. Asking him to pinpoint one soul who doesn’t even know him is probably like asking a human to identify the ant named Carl in a whole anthill.

“You're useless,” he complains, but closes his eyes. Slick isn't a traveler; he’s trapped in a cell. But…maybe he’s lost, in a way.

Jericho Drumm told Marc once that magic was a matter of thinking sideways and coming up with justifications for why something should work, and Khonshu is a creature of magic. This should be no different.

“He lost his way,” Marc says, and crouches down, splaying a hand over the floor. “He turned away from the rest of the clones and took a different path, and it’s led him somewhere dark. Whatever he intended, it wasn’t this.”

There’s a pause, and then Khonshu laughs, low and clicking in the too-bright hall. “ ** _Oh, my knight_** ,” he says, full of dark delight. “ ** _You’ve always been charmingly clever_**.”

Marc rolls his eyes, then closes them, concentrating. It’s like finding Scarlet in that tall house, full of thugs; he can feel the path stretching out beneath his feet, can feel the turn where Slick left it. A lost soul, and Khonshu is the guardian of the lost, the wandering. All the clones currently in the base have reasons, set paths, destinations and aims. But—

One point of light in the darkness, and one soul that’s out of place.

“There,” Marc says, and straightens. The shadow-image of Khonshu watches him with burning eyes as he heads up the corridor, and Marc can feel the moment the shadows fall back into their normal arrangement, see the flicker of Khonshu's reflection in a darkened screen as he passes it. The god keeps pace as Marc heads deeper into the base, then down a level, into a place with fewer lights and far less white.

“Industrial,” he mutters, pausing at the top of the hall, and studies it. There’s a door at the end that’s being guarded by two clones with blasters, and he can sense Slick somewhere behind it. Getting in is going to mean waiting for someone else to enter or knocking out the guards, though, and the latter is a little more blatant than Marc wants to be.

“I don’t suppose you can hide the door opening from them?” he mutters, but Khonshu doesn’t answer, which probably figures. He’s helpful, but he’s also still a complete _ass_.

With a muttered curse, Marc eyes the guards, then the door, and weighs alerting the whole army to his infiltration against skulking in the hall all night and probably waiting for whoever delivers Slick’s breakfast so he can slip in. tossing a stone down the hallway probably won't cut it here, unfortunately.

Before he can come to a decision, though, there’s a thump of boots, and Marc ducks back against the wall, carefully out of the way; Khonshu hides him from sight, when he’s like this, but if someone bumps into him they're still going to feel something. 

He’s just in time, too. A moment later a clone with orange stripes on his armor and a scar down one side of his face enters the hall, and the two guards immediately snap to attention.

“Commander!” the closer one says.

“Boil, Waxer,” the commander acknowledges. “All quiet?”

“Unfortunately,” the clone with tally marks on his helmet mutters. His partner elbows him hard, which is rather less subtle in armor than he was probably hoping, and Marc hides a snort.

“You’ll be back on patrol soon enough, Waxer,” the commander says dryly. “Has anyone tried to get in?”

“Haven’t seen a soul,” Boil says with a shrug. “Wooley brought down his tray, but whatever this place is trying to pass off as meat was the only disturbance.”

“And it was _very_ disturbing,” Waxer says.

The commander looks like he wants to roll his eyes. “Your relief will be here soon, sit tight.” Reaching out, he punches in a code, and the door slides open. Marc moves before it can close again, right on the commander’s heels as he steps in. The closing door almost catches the edge of his cloak, but he ducks out of the way in time, slipping up against the wall. It’s darker in here, a row of cells with glowing force shields in place of doors, and only one is occupied. The clone in it comes to his feet as the commander approaches, tipping his chin up in defiance.

“Cody,” he says, like an accusation.

“Slick,” Cody says, uninflected. “Your transfer’s been arranged. Tomorrow you’ll be taken up to Admiral Yularen and prepared for transport back to the nearest judicial base. If you have a statement, now would be a good time to give it.”

“A _statement_?” Slick growls. “I already gave you my statement—the Jedi are getting us killed by the thousands—”

Cody twitches, hands closing into fists. It’s clear that he wants to react, but won't let himself, and Marc watches him closely, trying to guess at the reason. Because the words hit home, or—

“ _You_ were the one who got our brothers killed here, Slick,” Cody says, deceptively quiet in a way that means he wants to be yelling. “Do you want me to tell you how many of us died in the attack? I can tell you all their names. I _saw them_ die.”

Slick falters, swallows. He jerks his head away, looking into the corner of his cell, and says curtly, “Better they're dead than slaves to the Republic. To the _Jedi_.”

His voice breaks, just a little. Marc would probably miss it if he wasn’t looking for it, but—it’s there.

Cody takes a careful breath, then abruptly shifts back, locking his wrists behind him. “Brothers are dead because of you, Slick. Whatever your motivation, I can't forgive that. The rest of us won't, either. You’d better hope the courts have more sympathy than the clones.”

There are lines around Slick’s eyes, a pinched tightness to his mouth. “Of course they're not going to have sympathy for me,” he snaps. “They’re going to see me as a traitor and execute me—”

“You _are_ a traitor,” Cody says, raw. “You sold us out to Ventress, Slick.”

“I sold the Jedi out,” Slick snarls. “They keep us like _slaves_ —”

There’s a sharp, furious sound, and Cody jerks away, turning his back on Slick. Containing himself, Marc thinks, eyeing him. Someone with less self-control probably would have put their fist through a wall.

“You knew _exactly_ what you were doing,” Cody says, shoulders tight, spine perfectly straight. “There was no way you were deluded enough to think that Ventress wouldn’t immediately try to wipe us all out if she killed Generals Kenobi and Skywalker. Even if you hadn’t told Ventress where _my general_ was so she could _murder him_ , I still wouldn’t be able to forgive you for that. Prepare whatever you want to say to the court. You’re being shipped out tomorrow.”

There's a long, long moment of silence as Slick looks away. Cody doesn’t turn, doesn’t waver. He marches out, the door hissing shut behind him, and in the following silence Slick curses. He throws himself down on the cot, curling in on himself and dropping his head in his hands, and breathes out, shaky and harsh.

Marc steps out of the shadows, feeling Khonshu's invisibility slide away. For a moment, he just watches Slick, the slump of his body, the curl of his fingers, and then he cocks his head.

He can feel it, now that he’s looking. Not just Jester and Gus, but dozens of clones, all angry, all wanting justice. All wanting something darker and crueler to go along with it, even if it’s only a vague thought in the backs of their minds.

“You know,” he says, and Slick jerks, instantly on his feet again and bristling. “I came here to see if justice had been done, but all I'm hearing is hearts that want vengeance. Against _you_ , and isn't that interesting.”

Slick’s expression twists. “Who the hell are you?” he demands. “How did you get in here?”

“You can call me Moon Knight.” Marc steps closer to the force field, studying Slick closely. “The commander might not have told you how many clones died in the attack, but I can. If you wanted to know.”

He catches it again, the twist of Slick’s expression, the flicker in his eyes. The pause, almost unnoticeable, and Marc smiles thinly behind his mask.

“Want to know if anyone in your squad was killed?” he asks. “Jester, maybe. Or Gus. Want to know if their bodies are still lying on the battlefield because of you?”

Slick’s breath is ragged. “What do you _want_?” he asks, but it cracks halfway through.

Marc fingers a crescent dart. “A reason,” he says. “Why you betrayed your comrades.”

“My brothers,” Slick says, expression twisting into something close to rage but not quite there. “They can't even see it. The Jedi are using us as slaves, as _cannon fodder_ , and if I didn’t work with Ventress—”

Of course Ventress has her slimy hands all over this, Marc thinks. “If you didn’t,” he says quietly, “hundreds of them would still be alive.”

Slick stares at him for a long, long moment. “She offered me freedom,” he says.

It’s not an excuse. It’s a drowning man reaching for a life preserver, trying desperately to pull himself to safety, and Marc breathes out slow and steady.

Khonshu is the guardian of lost souls. That doesn’t mean he finds a path for them; it just means that he keeps them from harm as they drag themselves back towards the light. He’s also a merciful god, when he wants to be.

“I can offer you freedom,” he says, quiet, and meets Slick’s eyes when the clone’s gaze snaps up to his. “But what use is it to an evil man?”

“I'm _not_ ,” Slick snaps, steps closer like he’s going to physically intimidate Marc. Marc wouldn’t be impressed even if there wasn’t a barrier between them. “I'm a _person_ , I'm sentient, and I don’t want to be a kriffing soldier! I don’t want to die for the kriffing _Jedi_!”

“ _I_ ,” Marc says. “That sounds right. You never even thought about the others, did you.”

It’s not a question, and Slick stares at him, mouth a thin, flat line. “Of course I did,” he finally says, rough. “But I won't live like a slave. No matter what. They don’t see it, but I do, and I can't take it.”

Marc considers. The weight of vengeance tips the scales against Slick, and Marc debates taking his heart for a beat before dismissing the idea. It’s not wicked enough to feed Khonshu, especially not when set against some of the souls in this galaxy. Debates, too, simply leaving him in his cell, but—

He’s not wicked, but he’s also not good. Selfish, angry, suffering in a trap of his own making. That’s not quite justice enough, but it’s close.

“I can get you out,” he says, and Slick’s eyes widen, then narrow sharply.

“And into your service?” Slick accuses. “Trading one master for another?”

Marc snorts. “I already serve a master,” he says, “and he doesn’t take unwilling devotees. No. I can set you free, but in return, you’ll have to save as many lives as you spent here.”

“What?” Slick stares at him, wary, then flicks a glance at the door, torn between offered freedom and wariness.

“For every clone you got killed in the attack, you save a life,” Marc says flatly. “It will take you years. You’ll be free when you do it, but I’ll make sure that you fulfill the bargain eventually, no matter how far or how fast you run.”

Slick swallows. Marc watches the war in his eyes, the temptation against the distrust, and draws a crescent dart from his belt. Flips it around his fingers, a quick flash of silver, and watches it take on the pale glow of the full moon above the base.

“Well?” he asks.

Slick takes a breath, squares his shoulders, lifts his chin. “ _If_ ,” he says, a challenge, “you can even get me out of the base, how do I know you aren’t just another Sithspawn ready to sell me off to the highest bidder?”

“You don’t,” Marc says flatly. “But you were desperate enough to get away to sell out your brothers. I assume a leap of faith isn't out of the question.”

“You're a bastard,” Slick growls, closes his eyes, and jerks his head in a quick nod. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Not a surprise. Marc flips the dart around in his hand again, then brings it down hard, right through the mechanism locking Slick’s cell. There’s a spray of sparks, a flash, and an alarm starts wailing as the field dies. Instantly, Slick bolts out, but before he can run for the door Marc grabs his arm, hauls him to the side against one of the other cells, and claps a hand over his mouth.

“Khonshu,” he hisses, and Khonshu laughs wickedly in his ear, the tingling silver wash of his power sweeping over both of them. Slick is stiff, frozen, but he twitches hard when the door slides open. Moves like he wants to lunge, but Marc hauls him back as Waxer and Boil both press in.

“Ah, bantha shit,” Waxer says, and turns. His gaze passes right over Marc and Slick without pausing, and he keeps moving, blaster up, head turning as he scans the room. “How the hell did someone get in here?”

“Vents?” Boil suggests, then looks over at the door as more booted feet approach. Cody is the first one through the door, and Boil says, “Sir! No sign of the prisoner, and we were outside the door the whole damned time—”

“Later, Boil,” Cody says shortly, and waves in another man, bleached blond and in blue-edged armor. There are more troopers behind them, and they fan out across the room. “Check the vents, and anywhere _you’d_ go. Rex—”

“Get the generals,” the blond agrees, and jerks his head towards the door. “I’ll stay.”

“On my way,” Cody says, and turns, heading back out. Right as he makes to pass Marc and Slick, though, he hesitates, turning his head right towards them.

Marc doesn’t breathe, and he tightens his hand over Slick’s mouth, staying perfectly still as Cody's gaze sweeps up, down, and then away again.

“Cody?” Rex asks, concerned.

“Thought I saw something,” Cody says, and drags his gaze away. Keeps moving, and Marc shifts his grip, grabs Slick by the elbow, and drags him out the door right after Cody. He pauses there again, letting the commander put space between them, and stays there as more troopers fan out to search the hall. The moon’s getting lower, though, and he doesn’t want to test Khonshu's ability to keep them invisible during the day, when there’s no moon to be seen; as soon as there’s a gap, he pulls Slick on, up into the main part of the base and then out, right through the main gate as another squad returns.

As they slip into the streets and back into a narrow alley between soaring skyscrapers, Slick stumbles, and Marc lets go. He gives the man a second to gather himself, one hand braced on the wall, and checks his map. They’re close to the spaceport, and if he gets Slick on the ship, that should be a decent enough hiding place for now. He’s going to be headed off-planet the second he kills Kenobi, after all, and there shouldn’t be time for anyone to search his ship. Especially if they think Slick got out on his own.

“How the hell did you do that?” Slick demands. “It wasn’t a personal cloaking device—”

“Magic,” Marc says flatly. It’s even true. “I'm registering you as a paying passenger on my ship, headed to Coruscant. I need to get back into the base, but you can't come.”

“Believe me, if I never have to go back there I’ll be as happy as a loth-cat with a bowl of cream,” Slick says bitterly, and straightens, still watching Marc warily. “Who the hell are you?”

“Isn't it a little late to be asking that?” Marc asks dryly. “I told you. Call me Moon Knight.”

“And you just like to wander around GAR bases for fun?”

“I'm here to kill General Kenobi,” Marc tells him, and Slick pulls up short, eyes widening. “Come on, keep moving.”

Slick follows closely as he heads for the spaceport, thankfully, though he’s a little twitchy every time troopers pass them. There are none visible at the port, and Marc makes it to his ship and calls down the ramp.

“Go,” he tells Slick. “I’ll be back in a while. Don’t touch the statue when I'm not here to stop it from eating you.”

“ _Eating_ _me_?” Slick echoes, torn between indignation and alarm. “What in the kriffing hells—”

Marc shoves him up the ramp, out of patience and out of time. The distraction of Slick’s escape will only last so long, and he wants to either knock off Kenobi or slice the systems before the night is over. “The ship’s locked to my biosigns, don’t try to steal it. Go.”

The ramp closes in the face of Slick’s spluttering, and Marc turns back towards the base and picks up a run.

The night’s not over just yet.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The best way to procrastinate rewriting 3k: write 9k of another fic.

“There have been no signs of him?” Obi-Wan asks, sweeping down the corridor. He’s limping faintly, and something turns in Cody's chest at having to drag him out of bed after two consecutive battles with no down time in between, but there’s no alternative.

“No, sir,” he answers. “I doubled the guard and put more men on the transports, but if he’s trying to leave, he must have figured out another way to do it. No one’s seen him by the walls or the gates.”

“Or he’s waiting us out,” Skywalker mutters, on Cody's other side. He pauses at the top of the hall, looking down to where Rex and several of his men are grouped, and frowns worriedly. “Obi-Wan, if this is what we felt earlier—”

“I don’t think it is,” Obi-Wan says, faintly tight, though Cody can't see a sign of it on his face. “That was far more…aggressive.”

Cody doesn’t like the sound of that at _all_. He grimaces, nodding to Rex as he approaches, and asks, “Nothing?”

Rex shakes his head. “There’s no way out of that room except through the guards, and Waxer and Boil both swear they didn’t even feel a draft before the alarm went out. The cell’s clear, too, but it was hit from the outside. Slick couldn’t have disabled the field himself.”

Obi-Wan and Skywalker trade grim looks. “Ventress, perhaps,” Obi-Wan says.

“Would Ventress really risk breaking into the base for a clone?” Skywalker counters. “Even for a traitor. It seems more likely she’d just kill him, even if she did get in.”

Cody curls his fingers a little tighter in his gloves, wondering. If it was Ventress, if she did grab Slick rather than killing him, it must be because he knows something valuable to her. Not even something she wants to keep secret, but something that the rest of them don’t know.

“There’s no proof that it was her,” Obi-Wan says into the strained silence. “We mustn’t jump to conclusions just yet. Anakin, the security feed. Captain, please let Admiral Yularen know to watch for any craft leaving the planet without proper clearances. Christophsis is too heavily populated and too advanced for anyone to disappear easily here. Slick and whoever took him will likely be attempting to make their way off-planet as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” Rex says, and steps back to give them privacy, bringing his communicator up. Skywalker, however, is frowning, and he folds his arms across his chest.

“Leaving the security footage seems like an amateur move,” he points out. “And whoever did this is skilled.”

“Perhaps we’ll get lucky,” Obi-Wan says, and smiles wryly. “Humor me, Anakin. At the very least we might get a clue about whoever it was. Something is far more valuable than nothing.”

“Of course, Master.” Skywalker heads for the detention cells, where one of Rex's Torrent Company is working at a terminal. The tech immediately steps to the side to let him see, and Cody shifts his gaze back to where his general is looking particularly tired.

He hesitates, for a moment, over what he should say, but finally offers, “General. Something seemed off, in the cell. When I arrived after Slick’s escape, it seemed…strange.”

“Strange,” Obi-Wan repeats, but it’s not mocking, just thoughtful. “Strange like a mind trick, perhaps?”

Cody blinks, hesitates. “General?”

Obi-Wan taps his fingers against his forearm, where his vambraces usually sit. Given that he was dragged out of bed and rushed right into a situation, he’s out of armor, and Cody thinks about his bad feeling earlier and decides to hurry Obi-Wan back to his quarters to retrieve it at the first possible moment.

“I don’t believe that what I felt was the sense of a Force-user approaching,” Obi-Wan finally says. “But I cannot be sure it wasn’t. It would explain why no one saw anything—”

“Master!” Skywalker calls, and that tone is sharply urgent. Instantly, Obi-Wan crosses the space between them, Cody on his heels, and—

“Oh,” Obi-Wan says, startled, at the image on the screen. It’s probably a man, probably humanoid, but in Cody's opinion he looks more like a mobile cloak and a wandering patch of shadow beneath it. The picture is fuzzy, uncertain, and Skywalker leans back, scowling.

“The footage was almost completely covered,” he says. “Some sort of interference, maybe from a jammer. We’ve got this shot and maybe two more, from the whole file.”

There’s a moment of silence as Obi-Wan studies the figure. “Well,” he says after a moment. “It will be rather hard to provide a description, with that mask. That symbol, though—I can't say I'm familiar with it.”

“It looks like a crescent moon,” Cody says, and tries to wrack his brain for any mention of that particular iteration of the symbol being used by a mercenary or pirate or anyone of the sort. It’s a simple thing, though; there are probably thousands of uses, all over the galaxy. The man’s wearing it proudly, too, emblazoned on his chest in silver, clear even against the white armor. It’s almost certainly a personal symbol.

“Well, we certainly haven’t encountered every mercenary outfit in the galaxy, even if it sometimes feels like it,” Obi-Wan says lightly. “This must be a new player. And someone who wanted Slick very badly, to go to all this trouble.” Reaching out, he skips the tape head to the next clear frame, and—

Cody's breath sticks hard in his throat, horror surging. “General—” he starts, staring at the image of himself walking right past Slick and the stranger where they’re pressed up against the wall. “I—”

“Easy, Cody,” Obi-Wan says kindly, and touches his shoulder with light fingers. “Clearly we’re dealing with something outside the ordinary here. Anakin?”

“I didn’t feel anything, Master, but that doesn’t mean much,” Skywalker says, frustrated. “There are so many people here, and the battle—”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan allows, but his eyes are still on the screen. “I must say the same. I felt no trace of his presence in the base.” A hesitation, and he frowns faintly. “A Force Blank, perhaps? But he would not have been able to hide himself from you, if that were the case. Your memory of him would be clouded, not gone.”

Skywalker’s head jerks up. “Like—Granta Omega? You think he’s Omega?” he demands.

“It is an unlikely possibility,” Obi-Wan says, a warning more than anything. “But a possibility nevertheless. Given the intruder’s abilities, though, I want a full review of all security footage for the past two days, particularly the last few hours.”

“Yes, General!” the tech at Skywalker’s elbow says, and scrambles to relay the order. Obi-Wan waves a hand in thanks, then takes another look at the screen and grimaces.

“I think I want to check the gates myself,” he says. “Anakin, would you take another look at the room? A Jedi’s senses might help. Commander?”

“I’ll accompany you, sir,” Cody says immediately. Obi-Wan’s not wearing armor, and even if the intruder is probably gone by now, he doesn’t like the idea of leaving his general unprotected. The Jedi are impressive warriors, but they're still mortal.

Obi-Wan’s smile is slightly wry. “Well, another pair of eyes certainly won't hurt,” he says, and Cody lets out a breath of relief, falling into step with him as he heads back up the corridor.

“Sir,” he offers, “if you want to stop to get your armor—”

As Cody probably should have expected, Obi-Wan waves a dismissive hand at that. “I’ll be fine, Cody, but thank you. We’re short on time if we want to make sure Slick and his rescuer can’t leave the base.”

“Yes, sir,” Cody says, and reaffirms his plan not to stray more than five paces from Obi-Wan’s side tonight. He pauses, watching a squad hurry towards the western exit, and then says, “I don’t like that someone would break in just to kidnap a clone, sir.”

“Neither do I,” Obi-Wan agrees without hesitation, and beneath the beard, Cody can see lines around his mouth, a tired sort of resignation. “Despite your formidableness in battle, Commander, I can't imagine that Slick was taken solely because he was a clone.”

There would be much easier targets, if that were it. Cody breathes out, trying to think of the reason, but it always circles back to Slick’s actions. “Do you think it’s because he would be considered defective, sir?” he asks tightly, and—the Kaminoans use that word, sometimes, when a clone’s not up to standard. There was one in Cody's batch, and—he didn’t come back, eventually. But Slick’s not _defective_ , he’s a traitor. There’s nothing wrong with him except a willingness to betray his brothers.

For a long, long moment, Obi-Wan doesn’t say anything. Then, slowly, he lets out a breath that’s just a little too light to be a sigh.

“I hesitate to name any thinking being _defective_ ,” he says, mouth pulling down sharply at one corner. “But—perhaps someone else would indeed see it that way. Force knows the Kaminoans are ruthless in their business, and could have ordered Slick spirited away, but I can't imagine they could have gotten word so quickly.”

Disrespecting the Kaminoans feels a little too close to heresy; Cody keeps his mouth shut and simply nods. Obi-Wan still looks considering, and after a moment he shakes his head and says, “Unless they're monitoring you and your brothers far more closely than I would imagine is possible, or we have another informant in our ranks, I can't imagine they would have learned of the betrayal already. We’ve kept it quiet.”

It’s for the best, Cody knows; learning that one of their own betrayed them to Ventress will hurt morale, and if there are any brothers who take after Slick in that way, they might try to follow his lead. Cody hates the thought of any clones turning traitor, but Slick’s proved it’s more than just an abstract possibility.

“Ventress taking action seems more likely,” Cody says, and Obi-Wan really does sigh this time.

“Ventress is rapidly becoming a pain in our collective—”

“General, Commander!” Crys calls from the edge of the building. When Obi-Wan turns, the clone jerks a thumb towards the wall beyond the gate and says, “I think we found something, sirs.”

Obi-Wan glances at Cody, then makes for Crys with quick strides. “Something to do with our intruder, Crys?” he asks.

“Yes, sir.” Crys leads them across the wide stretch of open ground, up to the base of the wall, and points towards the top. “No one’s touched it, sir. Wanted to be sure you got a look at it first.”

 _It_ being a small flash of silver embedded in the wall, as though the duracrete is as soft as regular wood. With a frown, Obi-Wan reaches out a hand, and Cody waits for the thing to be lifted down, but—

Nothing happens. The projectile doesn’t so much as move.

“General?” Cody asks warily.

Obi-Wan doesn’t answer, just takes one quick step, gets a foot on the wall, and jumps with the strange lightness of a Jedi using the Force. He catches the top of the wall, then reaches out for the dart, and Cody tenses, ready for poison, for some kind of trap. The dart pulls free without any difficulty, though, and a moment later Obi-Wan drops back to the ground, then rises, holding out his hand. The dart rests in his palm, shining silver in the light.

“It’s unreactive to the Force,” he says, and there's a thread of interest in his voice when Cody would much rather hear alarm. He doesn’t roll his eyes, but mostly because he’s not wearing his bucket and doesn’t want Crys to see.

“General,” he says, “do you know of anything like that?”

“Very few things,” Obi-Wan says thoughtfully, and lifts the dart between two fingers, studying it closely.

Cody looks at it, then turns, scanning the area around them. Something prickles down his spine, sharp like claws and vicious like contained alarm.

“It looks like a crescent moon,” Obi-Wan says, and tests the edges.

“ _Sir_ ,” Cody says, aggrieved, and debates whether he’ll get a demerit for taking it away from him. “Be _careful_.”

Amusement flickers across Obi-Wan’s face. “I assure you, Commander, I'm always careful,” he says, which is the most blatant lie Cody's ever heard. It makes Crys muffle a snicker, too, so clearly Cody isn't alone in feeling that way. Obi-Wan gives them both an offended huff, but holds a hand over the dart instead of defending himself. Probably because he knows he _can't_. “It’s quite sharp, but…I can’t even touch it with the Force. How interesting.”

How unsettling, Cody would say. He takes a breath, scanning the area again, and lets his gaze linger for a moment on the gate. Peel is seeing a delivery of supplies through, and Cody frowns, watching the transport glide through. It kicks up a fair amount of dust, but there are troopers already closing the gates, enough bodies present that Cody is fairly sure nothing is going to manage to sneak out. Still, it _itches_ , the same way it did when Slick vanished in the control room. There’s no vent for him to be hiding in this time, though, and even he can't manage to squeeze out of a closed gate, so Cody forces himself to keep looking, keep turning.

“Well,” Obi-Wan murmurs. “Apparently we have an answer as to why Anakin and I felt nothing when the intruder was present. If he can cloak himself from the Force the same way as these dart, there’s little chance we’ll sense him.”

 _Kriff_ , Cody thinks, and trades looks with Crys. Immediately, the trooper nods and steps back. “More patrols, sir?” he asks Cody.

“I want every inch of the wall covered,” Cody says. “Get some of the 501st on duty, too. Switch off regularly.”

“Yes, sir!” Crys salutes, then moves away, and Cody forces himself to breathe. that’s a decent start, even if it doesn’t feel like enough. Having someone in the base who the Jedi can't sense, and who can completely conceal himself from view, feels like the start to an invasion, though.

“There are only so many places two men can lie low in the base,” Obi-Wan says. “We’ll find them, Commander.”

Unless, of course, they’ve gotten out already, Cody thinks. “Yes, sir,” he says instead, because doubtless Obi-Wan’s thought of that already. “It doesn’t hurt to be careful, though.” He pointedly eyes the dart Obi-Wan is still holding. It’s cut through his gloves.

Blithely, Obi-Wan ignores him, flipping it around his fingers. “What a curious thing,” he says. “I wonder if its resistant properties come from the metal itself, or if they're from something different.”

Another sweep of the yard has Cody pausing, eyes narrowing. He takes two steps to the side to be sure of what he’s seeing, then says, “It seems like you’ll have plenty of samples to check, General. Over there.”

Surprised, Obi-Wan turns, and it takes him a moment to see what Cody has. The second dart is half-hidden by the glare of the lights on the duracrete, tucked away behind a scout tower.

“More?” Obi-Wan murmurs, but makes for it, jumping easily to the top of the wall to reach it. When he drops down to show it to Cody, it’s a perfect match to the first.

“Perhaps they're some sort of field generator?” Obi-Wan offers, turning the second one over. There aren’t any lights, but it seems reasonable, and Cody just shrugs.

“Not the weirdest thing we’ve seen, General,” he says, and Obi-Wan snorts.

“Hardly, Cody,” he agrees, amused, and then turns to look down the wall. “More of them, do you see?”

Cody does see. Specifically, Cody sees a trail of four more darts, all leading towards a wide open stretch of ground where the troopers have cleared away the debris from Slick bombing the transports. That prickle is back, and he grips his blaster more tightly, unsettled in a way that doesn’t usually come without at least one Sith facing them down. “Sir…”

 _It looks like a trap_ , he wants to say, but there’s no cause to. The section of the base is clear, and there are guards on the wall, and there’s no sign of anyone close. Still, it feels off the same way the detention cells did, and Cody says, “Let me get them, sir. You should go get your armor.”

“Nonsense,” Obi-Wan says firmly, because of kiriffing _course_ he does. “I can reach them far more easily than you would be able to, and if they _are_ generating a field of some sort, it’s best to get them down as soon as possible.”

True, unfortunately. Cody grimaces, but follows tight on Obi-Wan’s heels as he makes his way down the wall, collecting the darts. Six of them, all identical, and by the time he lands with the last one, Cody's unease has turned into outright disquiet.

“No one saw the intruder plant those,” he says tightly.

“Or they don’t remember they saw him do it,” Obi-Wan says, and tosses one lightly into the air, catching it as it falls. “Alternately, they could have been thrown from a distance. They seem quite aerodynamic.”

That’s hardly reassuring. Cody eyes the distance to the main building, and—if that’s what happened, the intruder’s got a hell of an arm, and good aim to go along with it. “Sir—” he starts.

Obi-Wan drops the darts, and his eyes widen.

 _Shit_ , Cody thinks, and spins, raising his blaster. All he manages to catch is a flash of white before something hits him hard in the chest with all the force of a cannon’s recoil, and he goes flying back into the wall. Crashes into it, spine-first, and even though his armor takes most of the impact it knocks the air from his lungs. With a strangled wheeze, he hits the ground, rolls up with his blaster aimed, and—

The man from the cell, without a doubt. White cloak, dark shadow, glowing eyes behind a mask that looks like nothing but cloth, and he swings at Obi-Wan, gloved fist and too much strength for a human, just as Cody takes the shot.

As if he’s got eyes in the back of his head, the man whirls aside, the bolt missing him completely. A white-gloved hand flashes out, and Cody catches a glint of silver just in time to roll out of the way. Even as he does, his blaster hits something, is wrenched aside and right out of his hands, and he curses. Rises, grabbing for his blaster pistol, just as the bone-deep hum of an igniting lightsaber sounds. Obi-Wan spins out of the way of a punch, sweeps his saber up and across, and the attacker wrenches back, flipping over like a Jedi to land in a crouch.

“Well met,” Obi-Wan says, light and friendly, and it’s undignified but Cody kind of wants to chuck a rock at his general’s head and tell him to stop flirting with everything that moves and _wants to kill him_. “I can't say we were expecting you, but it’s always nice to meet someone interesting.”

The man snorts, rising, and he’s not holding a weapon but that doesn’t set Cody at ease. “Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he says, and it’s not a question but Obi-Wan still smiles.

“That would be me,” he agrees. “Would you care to surrender? There are several blasters aimed in your direction at the moment. It would be a shame if any of them had to take the shot.”

The man’s glowing eyes don’t even flicker towards the clone troopers around them, all ready and waiting. “I'm just here for you,” he says darkly. “Hearts across the galaxy want vengeance. You’ve gotten more than your share of men killed, General.”

Obi-Wan’s expression tightens, just faintly. “Yes,” he agrees, and—

“Master!” Skywalker shouts, and Cody jerks around, sees him bolt out of the building and right at them, Rex on his heels. In the instant that the attacker is distracted, Obi-Wan moves, saber flashing up and out. The man spins around it, leaps up and over and drops to sweep a leg out, but Skywalker’s blue lightsaber almost takes his head off. He rolls, twists out of the way, and flips something bright silver off his belt.

“Anakin, don’t—” Obi-Wan cries, but it’s too late. The dart flies right at Anakin's throat, completely untouched by the hand he throws up, the way he reaches for it with the Force, and only Obi-Wan tackling him bodily knocks him out of the way in time.

“Kriff,” Rex says, and offers Cody a hand. Cody grabs it, lets Rex haul him to his feet with a groan, and staggers a step before he gets his pistol out. “Okay, vod?”

“Fantastic,” Cody bites out, and the stranger’s advancing, looming as Obi-Wan twists catlike to his feet. Without pause, Rex shoves his blaster into Cody's hands, taking the smaller pistol; they’re both good marksmen, but Cody's better, and he takes the shot a second time. He’s locked on the center of mass, and the man is facing away, distracted—

It doesn’t matter. He steps to the side, too fast, too alert, and the bolt hits the ground in a spray of dirt.

“What the Sithing _hells_ ,” Anakin says, and rises. “Who the hell are you?” he snarls.

The stranger doesn’t even look at him. “I'm here for Kenobi,” he says. “Move.”

“Me?” Obi-Wan’s brows wing up, and Rex groans quietly, knowing just as well as Cody what’s about to happen. “I'm certainly popular this week. Was there an article on the holonet that I missed, perhaps? You wanted to see the real thing in person?”

The stranger unsheathes a baton from the holster on his thigh, bringing it up and flipping it around his fingers. “Yeah,” he says flatly. “I just couldn’t contain myself.”

Obi-Wan smiles, like he always does when an enemy plays along. “Well, I can't say my schedule is clear, but if you want to hand Sargent Slick back over to us, I'm sure I can work something out.”

“So you can get him killed like the rest of your clone troopers?” the stranger asks, quiet but full of sharp edges. “Like cannon fodder against the droid armies?”

Obi-Wan is silent for a moment. “He betrayed the Republic,” he says. “Sargent Slick won't be seeing any more battlefields.”

“The way I see it,” the man says, and there’s no flicker in his expression, even as Skywalker circles around behind him, lightsaber at the ready, “your clones fight because they don’t have any other choice. That’s a hell of a lot like slavery, General.”

Cody swallows, and there’s something like rage building in his chest. The clones were made to fight, but they're of Mandalorian stock; most of them would want to fight even if they weren’t created to be an army. And—Cody wants to exist. He wants to live. If the price of that is fighting a war for a good cause, he’ll take it, and be glad for it. The option is never having been made, and even in his worst moments, Cody has _always_ wanted to exist in this world. He tightens his grip on the blaster, then consciously loosens it, and pointedly doesn’t look at Rex as he shifts one pace to the side.

Hitting Obi-Wan or Skywalker would be counterproductive, but if he can find an opening—

“The Separatists have dragged you into their mindset, I see,” Obi-Wan says lightly, though his expression is tight, lined. “What a shame. I had such high hopes for us.”

The stranger snorts, lifting his baton. “I think,” he says, “this is the part where I say _die, Jedi scum_.”

Obi-Wan jerks back, just as the baton swings for his face. He sweeps his lightsaber up, cutting a crescent-shaped dart in two as it flies for his chest, and while he’s distracted the stranger turns. One end of his baton shoots out like a grappling hook, catching Skywalker in the chest with a splatter of blood, and Obi-Wan shouts as Rex runs for his general. He swings for the stranger’s head, but the man is as quick as a Jedi and just as agile; he flips up and over, cloak flaring like the horns of a crescent moon, drops down to kick Obi-Wan in the back, and dodges the burn of the green blade. Throws a punch, even as he knocks Obi-Wan’s arm out to the side, and Obi-Wan is physically lifted off his feet by the force of it. He crashes down, rolls, rises, and catches the fist that’s swinging for his face.

“Strong,” he rasps, winded. “I like that in a man.”

The stranger doesn’t even hesitate, just kicks him in the gut, and Obi-Wan only just manages to leap it. He gets a foot on the wall, twists up and over, but another crescent dart skims his cheek. The landing is off-balance, and when he staggers, raises a hand like he’s going to shove the man back, the stranger just walks through it like the Force doesn’t exist for him.

Cody's seen Obi-Wan lift a _building_ like that. The idea that this man doesn’t even notice feels like ice down his spine.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is my plot spiraling out of control? Yes. Am I surprised? Only at the fact that I thought it wouldn't.

“Are you a Blank?” Obi-Wan asks, on the edge of sharp. “Who hired you?”

The man scoffs. “Not everything fits into your neat little world-view, Jedi,” he says. “My god is older than your order, and he’s hungry for your heart.”

“I'm afraid I make a point of not giving my heart away,” Obi-Wan says. “But as a general rule, if you're looking to win it, roses help.”

“That’s fine,” the stranger says, flat. “I like to get it the hard way: up beneath the ribs with a sharp object.”

Shit. Cody ducks along the wall, heading for the dropped darts, and catches one as he rises. Throws it hard, feeling it cut his fingers as it flies, and then drops, rolls to the side, and brings his blaster up. There’s a jerk as the man spins, stepping out of the way of the dart, but he’s not fast enough to dodge the bolt, too. It takes him in the side, and he grunts, jerks, staggers. Instantly, Obi-Wan lunges—

Right into the man’s grip as he sets his feet and _grabs_ , faster than he should be. Jerks back, hauling Obi-Wan up against his chest, and wraps an arm around his throat.

Cody's heart stops, and he freezes where he lies, staring into his general’s face as Obi-Wan’s eyes widen. The man brings his hand up, braced against Obi-Wan’s jaw like he’s about to break his neck, and he says, soft, “If I’d known you’d be this easy, General, I’d have started picking you Jedi off years ago.”

“General!” Cody says, desperate, and shoves to his feet. He takes another shot, and it catches the man’s hood, jerks it back. He wrenches to the side, and Obi-Wan twists in his hold, lightsaber sweeping around towards the stranger’s hip. The man curses in a language Cody's never heard before, tumbling them both to the side, and they land hard. Cody sees his chance and takes it without hesitation, lunging for them. He gets a hand on the man’s arm, another in his cloak, and uses the force of his momentum to haul him free. Hits the ground, rolls, feels the body under him twist hard, and then a foot against his chest throws him clear, just as Obi-Wan’s lightsaber sweeps down.

The man takes the skim of the saber’s blade across his arm, catches Obi-Wan’s wrist, and kicks. There’s a sharp, wet _crack_ , and Obi-Wan cries out, staggers as his lightsaber clatters to the ground. Without pause, the stranger sweeps his feet out from under him, pushes right through the kick Obi-Wan aims at his knee, and pins Obi-Wan to the dirt, a crescent blade pressed against his throat.

“I hope,” the man says, “that you have to face every clone you got killed before you reach the afterlife. Goodbye, General.”

Cody doesn’t think, doesn’t pause. He scrambles to his feet, takes three running steps, and swings his blaster like a club. It takes the man in the side of the head, and crimson paints his white mask as he cries out and goes tumbling off Obi-Wan. Cody follows, bringing the gun up, and takes a shot. It misses, but the man rises, grabs his arm as Cody swings again—

Moonlight _burns_ , and the stranger jerks his baton up, slams it into the side of Cody's head in a move that’s too fast for Cody to follow. Stars erupt behind Cody's eyes, darkness washing over him for an instant, and when it clears there’s a blade at his throat, a body against his back, and a hand gripping his wrists.

“Stop,” the man orders, a warning, and Rex curses. Cody tries to focus, blinks to clear the spots from his eyes, and finds Rex in front of him, between the stranger and Obi-Wan, who has his lightsaber in his off hand, broken wrist pressed to his chest. Skywalker is on the ground, eyes open and furious as he pulls himself up, ignoring the deep wound in his chest that’s still dripping blood.

“You stop,” Rex warns, and Cody’s pistol is up, aimed, but Rex hasn’t taken the shot yet. “Let him go, you two-toed swamp-sucker.”

Cody closes his eyes. His head is swimming, and it’s hard to think, but—he needs to move. He needs to get away so Rex will stop hesitating. He’s always been a bit too soft; there’s no way he’ll shoot through Cody.

“Rex,” he starts.

“Shut the hell up, Cody,” Rex snaps. “Let him go! You’ve lost, dungcreeper. There’s no way you can win.”

The man cocks his head, eyes narrowing. “You sound sure about that,” he says, and—

Cody registers the flicker of light through shifted earth just a second too late. “Move!” he shouts.

At the same moment there’s a click, a beep. Obi-Wan’s eyes go wide, and he throws up his good hand, but the wash of the explosion surges up and out without slowing, just as Force-resistant as the darts. It hits hard, a concussive blast that throws Obi-Wan and Skywalker through the air, sends Rex sprawling, and—

Glitters of silver, propelled by the blast. Cody only has time to turn his head before one takes him in the chest, and then all he can see is darkness.

With one foot on the transport, Mace freezes.

Just about to sit down, Ponds twitches, turning to him on instinct. The look on his Jedi’s face isn't one he’s seen before, but it’s alarming even so, because Mace Windu doesn’t _ever_ look startled.

“Sir?” he demands, reaching for his blaster rifle. “What’s wrong?”

The closest troopers, Razor and Stak, both come alert at that as well, buckets coming up and bodies straightening. The rest of Lightning Squadron follows suit, and Ponds would be proud if it weren’t buried by alarm.

For a long, long moment, Mace doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Then, finally, he blinks, shakes his head faintly, and deliberately steps back, out of the transport. Ponds doesn’t like that. “I'm fine, Commander,” he says shortly. “Continue on to shore leave, I need to contact the Council.”

Ponds doesn’t even have to think about it. He grabs his pack and jumps down onto the landing pad, waving to Razor. “Sergeant, you’ve got command.”

He turns, ready to head back into the city, and runs face-first into the flat, exasperated stare leveled at his helmet. “Commander,” Mace says . “Get back on that transport.”

“You first, sir,” Ponds says mildly, because he’s mostly sure Mace isn't about to write him up for it. “You’ve been on duty for just as long as the men have.”

 _Even Jedi need more down time than just intermittent meditation,_ he doesn’t say, but—it’s tempting. He’s wanted to say it a lot over the last few weeks.

Dark eyes narrow, and Mace regards him closely for a moment, then sighs through his nose. “I can physically put you back on that ship,” he says.

If Ponds has learned one thing, it’s that Mace doesn’t give warnings if he’s serious about something. “I'm sure you can, sir,” he says peaceably, and shoulders his gear. “Back to the command center?”

Mace raises a brow at him, but nods to Razor. “Sergeant, make sure all of the men get their full amount of leave before you head back.”

“Yes, sir!” Razor salutes him, then glances at Ponds. “Good luck, Commander.”

Ponds is grateful he’s wearing his bucket, because it hides his grin at Mace's offended huff. He doesn’t respond, just waves a hand and follows the flare of Mace's cloak as he turns back towards the town. The planet is a dustbowl, arid and grey, and Ponds pushes though a gust of ashy dust that nearly sweeps him off his feet and ducks into the building where they set up their communications arrays.

“Is something wrong, General?” he asks, brushing some of the flakes from his armor. Mace is already in front of the array, frowning down at it as he enters the code, and he doesn’t turn.

“Something just shifted,” he says curtly, then pauses. Keeps his face forward, but says, “Have you ever heard of shatterpoints, Commander?”

Ponds wracks his memory, but can't recall any mention of them on Kamino or since. “No, sir,” he says. “A Jedi thing?”

Mace's breath is heavy. “Yes,” he allows. “Select Jedi. Some are born with the talent, and a few can cultivate it. Shatterpoints are the weak points in the fabric of a thing, and if you have the talent, you can see them.”

Ponds pauses. He’s seen Mace take out heavy droid transports with one strike, shatter commando droids into parts with a well-placed hit, but he’d put it down to luck, or just Mace's strength. But—it’s hard to think what that has to do with now, with something so urgent that Mace would leave his troops and report back to the council immediately.

“Sir?” he asks carefully.

There’s a pause as the relay works, and finally, Mace turns to meet Ponds’s gaze. “The future has shatterpoints, too,” he says. “I haven’t seen one this wide-reaching since I failed to kill Dooku on Geonosis.”

The future, Ponds thinks, and hesitates, tracing out the meaning. If Mace hits the weak point of an object, it breaks. If he hits the weak point of the _future_ —

“You can change what’s going to happen?” he asks, half-strangled. The Jedi are powerful; that’s the reason they're the generals, because they know things, can sense things, can make advances that would take a whole battalion all on their own. Ponds has always known that there’s some level of awareness of the future, for the Jedi—Cody in particular talks about it, whenever they're stationed together. But knowing and _breaking_ are two different things, and it sounds like Mace is talking about finding a moment when one action will shatter the future as it’s supposed to be completely.

“Sometimes,” Mace says grimly, and looks away, back towards the hologram that flickers to life. “If I'm strong enough.”

He doesn’t mean strength in the force. Ponds swallows, and abruptly registers Mace's words a moment ago. _Since I failed to kill Dooku._ Like the whole war hinged on that, and the fact that it didn’t die on Geonosis with Dooku is his personal failing.

“Sir—” he starts, but before he can try to offer anything, the hologram takes General Yoda’s form, and instantly Mace's spine pulls straight. He clasps his hands behind his back and inclines his head to Yoda.

“Master Yoda,” he says formally.

“Master Windu. Pressing news, have you?” The ancient Jedi cocks his head, leaning on his staff, and his gaze slides from Mace to Ponds behind him. “On leave, I thought you were.”

Mace's mouth twists. “I was planning on it,” he says, and there’s a touch of the exhaustion that Ponds has seen in him caught in his voice. “But…have you noticed anything?”

There's a long, careful pause as Yoda regards him. Then, finally, he taps his stick against the platform and says, “Getting thicker, the Dark Side is. Felt anything of late, I have not.”

Mace grimaces. “There’s a new shatterpoint,” he says, and Yoda’s ears perk up. “I don’t know precisely what it is yet, but I think I can find it if I leave now.”

“Hrm.” Yoda considers, expression crinkling in deep thought. “Like you leaving the front, I do not. But important to the war effort, a new shatterpoint could be.”

“It feels important,” Mace says quietly. “Something has shifted, Master, or is about to. I can see the cracks, but not the epicenter.”

“Then find it, you should,” Yoda says gravely. “Finished on Christophsis, Kenobi and Skywalker are. Call them to cover your absence, I shall.”

“Thank you, Master.” Mace bows, brief and fluid, and straightens again. “May the Force be with you.”

“And with you,” Yoda murmurs, and ends the transmission.

In the relative darkness of the communications room, Mace is a shadow, stern and straight. Ponds wants to take a step closer, but he isn't sure if he’ll be welcome, so he stays where he is.

“The men will be on leave for a week,” he says into the hush. “Should I call them back early, sir?”

“No,” Mace says, final. “Let them have their time. This is a personal mission.”

“Please, sir,” Ponds says quietly. “I can ask for volunteers, if it would make you feel better. But I don’t like the thought of you going alone.”

Mace gives him a sideways glance that says more clearly than words that he knows _exactly_ how it will go if Ponds asks for volunteers. They’ll end up with the entirety of the 91st crammed onto a cruiser, and no chance for Mace to protest.

“Lightning Squadron only?” Ponds offers as a compromise.

“Might I remind you, Commander, that they're on _leave_ ,” Mace says pointedly. “As are you.”

“You're my general, sir,” Ponds counters, unwavering. “If you won't take a squad, at least let me come with you.”

Mace frowns, but turns on his heel, heading for the door. “You're the commander of the Corps, Ponds.”

“And the men are currently off duty,” Ponds says. When Mace shoots him a sharp look, he smiles. “Sir. Please.”

At the edge of the building, Mace pauses, eyes fixed ahead. He closes them, just for a moment, and Ponds gets the feeling he’s looking somewhere Ponds wouldn’t be able to, even if he tried. The wind whistles past them, and in the silence the dust feels like a veil, blocking out the rest of the world.

“No armor,” Mace says finally. “Pack as light as you can, and it’s just the two of us. I'm taking the fastest ship, and there won't be any time for sightseeing.”

“Yes, sir,” Ponds says, relieved that he doesn’t have to push any harder. “Where to, sir?”

Mace grimaces, deep and aggrieved. “Just as well Skywalker’s staying here,” he says, and turns, the sweep of his cloak stark against the grey dust. “We’re going to Tatooine.”

“That,” Marc hisses, hauling the limp body of a clone commander into the spaceport, “is _not_ how that was supposed to go.”

Khonshu is lounging beside the ship, entirely unruffled by Marc's glare. “ ** _Clever planning, my knight_** ,” he says, and dark, empty eyes sockets come to rest to Cody, amusement flaring in their depths. “ ** _A new pet?_** ”

“Fuck off,” Marc tells him, and keys the ramp down. Cody's bleeding all over his cloak, and while he probably could have left him to whatever medics the GAR has, he doesn’t trust Khonshu not to make things complicated and claim Cody's heart that way. Cody's probably killed, after all, or jaywalked, or _something_ , and Khonshu's not exactly picky when it comes to hearts. If there’s any possible way he can justify taking them, he will. And if Jedi powers won't work on him, Marc isn't about to test this galaxy’s much more regular medical techniques.

“You do realize you're a god of _healing_ , right?” he says, pointed, and staggers up the ramp. A fully-grown and fully muscled man in head-to-toe armor isn't exactly easy to cart around, even when there’s a full moon.

As the ramp closes behind him, there's a wash of moonlight across the interior of the ship, and Khonshu's statue turns its head, opening glowing eyes. “ ** _A god of healing, perhaps. But just as much a god of vengeance. Several Separatist generals would happily claim vengeance on this one_**.”

“I thought the clones were _yours_ ,” Marc retorts. He doesn’t exactly have medical facilities on his ship, but there’s a bench that he usually patches himself up on, and he dumps Cody on it, muttering a curse. It’s like hauling _Frank_ around, damn it.

“He moved the darts,” Marc says, still not quite able to believe it. “They were supposed to take out the generals, not _him_.”

Khonshu laughs, low and rumbling. “ ** _Moved them by using them against you,_** ” he says. “ ** _How interesting_**.”

“Fuck off,” Marc says again, and quickly undoes the straps on Cody's armor. The crescent darts cut through it deeply enough that it’s not worth much anymore, regardless. “Is Kenobi dead, at least?”

The statue’s face never shifts, but there's a sense around him of something wicked, needle-sharp amusement brought to bear. “ ** _I suppose you’ll find out_**.”

With a growl, Marc flings a stylus at him. It bounces off pale stone without any noticeable effects, but at least it makes Marc feel a little better. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Khonshu laughs at him, because of course he does. “ ** _Pay attention, my knight. I've halted his death, but you must do the rest_**.”

“What a shocking turn of events,” Marc grouses, but he pulls his mask off, gets the last of Cody's armor off, and stacks it next to the bench. Annoyance is hard and tight under his breastbone, because he planned that trap _carefully_ , laid everything out, shifted things while they fought so that when the charge went off the darts would fly exactly where he wanted them, but—

He didn’t account for Cody interfering. Didn’t account for him putting himself in the middle of the fight again and again in order to protect Kenobi. The other clone—Rex, Cody called him, Marc thinks vaguely—hadn’t stepped in in the same way, had kept to the edges. But as soon as Cody thought Kenobi was losing, he’d jumped to help him.

Trained for loyalty, Marc thinks, but—

That sits uneasy in his chest, the image of Cody trying to wrestle him down to keep him away from the Jedi. And then the Jedi himself…

Slavery, Marc had said, and the Jedi had flinched. Just a little, just faintly, but it was obvious around his eyes. Marc frowns down at the deep lacerations in Cody’s chest, not quite seeing them as he wipes away the blood, and sets his jaw.

It doesn’t matter now. The Jedi’s either dead or he’s not, and either way Marc needs to get them the hell off Christophsis and out into more neutral space.

 _The Separatists have dragged you into their mindset, I see_ , Kenobi said, but Marc knows a lie when he sees one. Even one like that, sideways and avoiding the truth rather than concealing it.

When Marc accused him of getting his men killed, he said _yes_. Didn’t justify, didn’t follow the statement, and Marc _wanted_ him to. Wanted to hear the excuses, the justifications, but he didn’t get the chance.

“What was in his heart?” he asks Khonshu. “You can see that, right? God of justice and everything.”

The light of the moon beyond the viewport reflects off the crescent topping Khonshu’s staff, fills the room with a silver glow that lingers. The god watches Marc clean the wounds for a long, long moment, and then says, “ ** _Do you truly wish to know, my son?_** ”

Marc pauses, weighing his answer. “Either way, the clones are still slaves to the Republic,” he finally says, rough.

“Yeah,” Slick says, challenging, and Marc glances up to find him in the doorway, gaze fixed on Khonshu’s statue. “Thought you’d already established that.”

“Don’t touch,” Marc tells him, and when Slick narrows his eyes at him, he smirks. “He likes to eat hearts. Especially wicked ones.”

Slick swallows, shifts back just a little. “Wicked,” he repeats, bitter. “Just because I wanted freedom?”

Marc shrugs, reaching for the bacta in his medkit. “Khonshu rules over vengeance,” he says. “How many people do you think want vengeance against the person who enabled an attack that got their brothers and friends killed?”

Slick rubs a hand over his face, hiding his expression. “No touching, right,” he says, and then, “I sure as hell hope you’re not expecting Commander kriffing Cody to fall into line with your ideas. He’s spent more time licking Jedi boots than any three other clones combined.”

Anger prickles across Marc’s shoulders, unexpected and immediate, but he doesn’t move. “He got caught in the crossfire,” he says. “The Jedi can’t touch me, but I’m not sure about wounds I inflict. Khonshu’s unpredictable like that, and I wasn’t about to let the commander die.”

“He’s dangerous,” Slick says flatly. “As soon as he wakes up, he’s going to club you over the head and scurry right back to Kenobi.”

Marc snorts, finding a pad and sealing it over the bacta, then hauling Cody up to wrap his chest in bandages. He’s not going to be comfortable, but Khonshu won’t let him die, and that will give him time to heal. “He’s welcome to try. Lots of other people have.”

Rising to his feet, he shoves the medkit back under the bench, then pulls his bloodstained cloak off and slings it around the shoulders of the statue, where it settles with a shimmer of moonlight. The blood starts leeching off, sliding into the pale stone, and Marc strips off the top of his vestments, then grabs a shirt and heads for the front.

“Strap in,” he warns Slick. “We’re leaving.”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but there are four Republic cruisers up there,” Slick says acidly, even as he takes the copilot’s chair. “And the very first thing the generals would have done when you broke me out is tell them to shoot down unauthorized ships.”

“Who says we’re unauthorized?” Marc asks, and when the control tower pings his comm, he answers. “ _Chons_ requesting immediate clearance for takeoff.”

“Negative, _Chons_ ,” the woman answers. “You’ll have to wait. Republic forces have put a momentary hold on all flights out of the city. Please remain in your dock.”

“Well, I tried,” Marc mutters, and turns the comm off. “All right, _now_ we’re unauthorized.”

“Fan _tastic_ ,” Slick mutters, and grabs hold of the arm of his chair.

Marc ignores him, because he’s still not _that_ familiar with piloting in this universe. It’s not the smoothest liftoff, but he manages it, and well before the running bodies in the spaceport reach them. A moment later, they’re shooting forward, atmosphere falling away behind them, and Marc starts inputting the coordinates for a hyperspace jump.

“That,” Slick says, alarmed, “is a _blockade_ , Moon Knight!”

“I see it.” It would be hard to _miss_ it, after all. The Republic cruisers are vast, larger than any helicarrier back in Marc's universe, and there are some unfriendly-looking guns on them, too. Marc eyes the calculations one last time, then lets them be, and says, “Khonshu, any time now.”

The low laugh that rolls through the ship makes Slick stiffen, eyes widening. “ ** _But I've done so much for you already this night, my knight_** ,” Khonshu says. “ ** _And I received no hearts in return. Where is your care for your god?_** ”

“It’s currently buried by the knowledge that you're not going to _have_ a knight if they shoot us out of the sky,” Marc snaps, and wipes the hyperspace calculations. If Khonshu is going to be like that, they need to find somewhere with a high concentration of assholes. “Khonshu, some invisibility would go over _really well_ right now.”

“ ** _Aren’t you putting quite a lot of faith on my ability to hide a whole ship?_** ” Khonshu asks thoughtfully, and when Marc turns to give the statue his dirtiest look, he’d swear Khonshu is smirking.

“Fine,” Marc says flatly, and his ship is a clunky thing, not exactly meant for maneuvering a blockade of warships, but he directs full power to the thrusters. “I hope space is a good alternative, because that’s where you're about to end up.”

“ _What_ ,” Slick protests. “You can't _run the line_ , that’s kriffing _suicide_ —”

Playing chicken with Khonshu isn't usually the best idea, and rarely ends well, but there are fighters rising behind them, the _Resolute_ in front of them, and Marc is out of patience. “Consider this my prayer,” he tells Khonshu, flips him off, and guns it for the gap between the _Resolute_ and the cruiser beside it.

Slick claps a hand over his eyes. “Should have stayed in my kriffing cell—”

And Khonshu laughs. “ ** _Always reckless, my son_** ,” he says, and power shivers across Marc’s skin. The moon seems brighter, just for a moment, and—

They vanish, rippling out of the _Resolute_ ’s sight as they soar past. Marc gives them barely enough distance to make things safe before he keys in the coordinates and jumps to hyperspace, leaving Christophsis well behind them.

They’re definitely not headed anywhere _nearly_ as nice. Marc kind of hopes that the Hutt aren’t holding too much of a grudge, because if they are, Tatooine is going to be a lot less fun than he hopes.


	5. Chapter 5

“Sir! Sir, can you hear me?”

It takes a vast amount of effort, but Rex peels his eyes open, then immediately slams them closed again as the world spins. The dark shape leaning over him, backlit by the base’s outer lights, lets out a sound of relief, and a moment later something cool and mildly comforting settles on the pounding pain on the side of Rex's head.

“Kix,” Rex manages after a moment. “General—”

“The med droids have him,” Kix says without pause. “He’s going to fine after some bacta, sir.”

Finally, grimly determined, Rex gets his eyes open, waits a moment for the word to stop swimming, and then pushes up on an elbow. He’s by the wall, and there’s a crater in the ground that says he’s lucky to have escaped the blast with a concussion and nothing else. Shaking himself, Rex makes to push all the way up, but before he can a hand slides into his line of sight.

“Captain,” Obi-Wan says, and he’s bleeding, hair a little scorched, one side of his face a mask of red. “Anything broken?”

“My dignity count, sir?” Rex asks, but takes the hand and lets Obi-Wan pull him to his feet. Once he’s there, he sways dangerously, but Obi-Wan steps close enough to brace him with a shoulder while he finds his feet.

“I believe dignity was the greatest casualty in all of this,” Obi-Wan says, but there’s something grim and almost startlingly dark in his face, made more apparent by the blood. “If we’re counting that, there were no survivors.”

“Sir?” Rex asks, alarmed, and shoots a look at Kix, who isn't meeting his eyes. Then, abruptly, it strikes Rex that Obi-Wan is still bleeding, and Anakin's already in the medbay, but—

No one’s rushed Obi-Wan there. Rex is only just coming awake, and there are no other bodies in the yard. Just Obi-Wan and Kix and a blast crater, and more blood on Obi-Wan than there should be.

“Sir,” he says, throat closing. Manages, desperate, “Where’s Cody?”

Obi-Wan is always contained and careful and wears a mask like no one else Rex has ever met, but in that moment he can see right through it. Beneath the ease there’s something as sharp as broken glass, full of cutting edges, and Obi-Wan meets his eyes for one brief moment before he looks away again, hiding everything.

“That,” Obi-Wan says evenly, “is a fine question, Captain, and one I mean to find an answer to immediately.”

Sithspit. Rex swallows around the rising horror, and asks, “That karking slagchucker _took_ him?”

“Not for long,” Obi-Wan says, precise. “Come on, Captain, let’s get you to the medbay—”

“I'm fine, sir,” Rex says, and digs his heels in, resisting Obi-Wan’s attempt to steer him towards the base. “If Cody is somewhere on-planet we just need to mobilize a few squads—I can take the lead.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Kix flicks a glance from him to Rex, and he’s the one to offer, “The intruder’s probably gone already, sir. A ship took a run at the cruisers and managed to slip through with some kind of cloaking tech. They're already sending out alerts to all of the surrounding planets, but…”

But. There’s a lot of space that doesn’t play by Republic rules, and won't even blink at a wanted ship touching down. To say nothing of the possibility that the sithspawn will just camp out on an uninhabited planet, or run straight back to the Seppies. Rex sets his jaw, breathes through his nose, and then says, “We have to find him.”

It feels a little like a plea to the dark, but he can't stop the words from coming out.

“We will,” Obi-Wan says, and it sounds like a promise. “I don’t know who that man was, but we will do everything in our power to find him, Captain, I assure you of that.”

But first they need to figure out who he is. Rex forces himself to breathe. There are too many options, and he likes none of them. Cody's the marshal commander of the 7th Sky Corps; there aren’t many more important clones in the whole GAR. Whoever took him probably wants him for information, troop positions, battle plans, and the anger bubbles up in Rex's chest, curls in his veins like heat lightning.

There's no time for fury, though, no space for it. Rex has a duty, and he needs to see to it, especially now that Cody's gone.

“The companies on the Outer Rim,” he says, and closes his eyes against the way his vision swims. “They're waiting for supplies, they're going to be vulnerable if someone interrupts the transports.” Because Cody knows _everything_ about their plans, and if he talks—

He won't, Rex thinks, but it’s not a reassurance. Sits in his gut, cold and terrible, and weighs like grief. Cody won't talk, even if they torture him. Even if they _kill_ him. He’s a stubborn bastard, and there’s no way anyone could make him betray his brothers or his Jedi. But—there are other ways besides him talking, especially for a person with unknown abilities like the attacker. The Jedi tend to be careful about how they dig into people’s minds, but not everyone is so polite.

Obi-Wan lets out a breath, short, almost amused through the grief, and his fingers tighten on Rex's elbow. “Preparations are already being made, Rex,” he says. “They’ll be fine.”

Obi-Wan wouldn’t put them in danger, and Rex knows that the same way he knows how to breathe, but hearing it said settles something in his chest. “Yes, sir,” he says. “The ship?”

“The _Chons_ ,” Obi-Wan says, and the thread of cool anger is almost entirely buried as he turns his head away, but not buried enough for Rex to miss it. “Registered through what seems to be a front company based on Nar Shaddaa, but the techs haven’t gotten more than that yet.”

Nar Shaddaa means it’s probably criminal, Rex thinks grimly. “You're going after it, sir?” he asks, and Obi-Wan casts him a thin smile that’s probably meant to be charming. As it is, it just looks tight.

“As soon as Anakin is out of surgery,” he says. “Commander Cody in enemy hands isn't a risk I'm willing to take.”

Rex watches him, and considers the stranger’s words to Obi-Wan, _I hope you have to face every clone you got killed_ , the accusations, the way Obi-Wan’s expression right now is flat but the lines around his eyes are deep, and says, “I'm coming with you, sir.”

Obi-Wan’s smile is wan, but comes without hesitation. “I was hoping you would, Captain. If this man is truly impervious to the Force, I'm afraid we’re going to have to try some rather unconventional tactics to stop him.”

“No one’s completely impervious to a lightsaber,” Rex says, dry, and Obi-Wan smiles crookedly.

“Yes,” he agrees. “I'm rather hoping that’s the case.”

“—can’t believe you thought it was a _good idea_ —”

Slick’s voice, Cody thinks, and very carefully keeps his eyes closed, his breathing even. If Slick’s talking, he’s not at the base. Probably not on Christophsis anymore; the hum of the metal means engines, probably a ship, and given his last memory, he’s got a hunch whose.

“I never said it was a good idea,” the attacker answers, faintly amused in a way that he wasn’t anywhere close to at the base. “It’s a bad one. But it might be bad enough to keep them off our tail.”

His Basic has a strange accent, something Cody isn’t familiar with. There wasn’t time to catalogue it before, in the middle of a fight, but here and now Cody picks it apart, trying to place it. He stretches vowels strangely, like he’s not completely used to parts of the tongue, and his pronunciation is rough in places. Not from a Core world, probably, or he’s from the dregs of society there if he is.

“Or it could get us both killed,” Slick counters. “It’s _likely_ to get us both killed.”

“Then my life can be one of the first you save,” the attacker says flatly. “Think of the potential to work through our deal in a few days, instead of a lifetime.”

Slick scoffs, but the irritation is tempered by something lighter, familiar. Cody used to hear Slick joke with his squad in that tone. “And how many brothers do you count for? Can I knock five or six off the debt with one go?”

There’s a long, long pause. “A life for a life,” the stranger says quietly. “No one life weighs more than another. You got a hundred and twelve troopers killed, Slick. You save a hundred and twelve lives, and then you’ve paid the debt.”

Slick’s next breath is ragged, and a chair creaks like he slumped back in it. “Kriff,” he mutters. “Yeah, I know.”

The man makes a sound of agreement, and then immediately moves on. “I would have picked Nar Shaddaa,” he says, “but that’s where Ventress hired me, and she doubt she’s feeling charitable about the delay.”

“Delay?” Slick asks, incredulous. “You’re going for Kenobi _again_? Because this time worked out so great for you?”

“I would have gotten him if I hadn’t heard about you,” the stranger says, unbothered, and Cody has to grit his teeth to keep from moving. That’s _his general_ the bastard is talking about assassinating, as if it’s _nothing_.

Slick hesitates. “I’m grateful,” he finally says, short. “I—Ventress isn’t one to cross.”

The stranger snorts. “She’s not as dark as some, but she’s still dark. Her heart would feed my god well.” Another pause, and he says, “I want to meet her master more than I want to earn her credits. Assassinating Kenobi gets me one step closer.”

“Dooku? You’re aiming to work for _Dooku_?”

“Well, I’m aiming for Dooku, that’s for sure.” Sharp-edged amusement fills the attacker’s voice. “Another heart for Khonshu.”

Working for Ventress, Cody thinks, and tension curls through his gut. But…not loyal to anything but his own plans. That could be useful, but it could also make him dangerous. _More_ dangerous.

Slick huffs. “You’re insane,” he says, but it’s almost admiring. “Kriff, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Against Dooku?” The man just sounds amused. “I’ve faced more dangerous men than him.”

“You haven’t,” Slick says flatly. “He’s in control of the whole _war_ , Moon Knight.”

“That’s the thing about wars,” Moon Knight says, flat. “So many moving parts. It’s easy for them to spin out of control.”

A cold thread of unease twists around Cody's spine, and he has to keep himself from swallowing. He’s encountered a lot of the figures in the war, seen reports and faced them directly but Moon Knight is a new face for all he doesn’t talk like it. And—things are unstable enough already. Tossing in a man who doesn’t seem to have any problem assassinating generals on both sides will just make it _worse_.

“Kriff,” Slick mutters. “What _are_ you?”

There's a pause, considering. “I don’t think your galaxy has many things like me,” Moon Knight finally says, and it’s wry, a little amused. “Not anymore.”

Shit. Cody curls his fingers, testing whether he’s bound, and the fact that he isn't is mildly reassuring. He twitches away from the voices, just to test—

Pain explodes through his chest and torso, raging, white-edged agony that expels all the air from his lungs on a ragged cry. He wants to curl in on himself, wants to get away, but it hurts too much to move. All he can do is dig his fingers into the metal under him and try not to pass out.

In the middle of the pain, distant, there are hands on him. A touch, cool fingers, a voice, and then a wash of cold to tame the heat of agony. Cody gasps out a breath, grinding the back of his head into the surface he’s lying on, and forces his eyes open.

The face above him is human, normal. Brown eyes, reddish-brown hair, bruises and cuts and a few spots of dried blood, and the man is frowning, deep and unhappy.

“Easy,” he says, and it’s Moon Knight’s voice. “Two crescent darts went right through your chest. It’s going to take a few days before you can walk it off.”

Through. That doesn’t sound good. It’s honestly what it feels like, though, and Cody can't help but groan, closing his eyes. That coolness is settling into his bones, curling into strung-tight muscle, and Cody can feel the pain trickling away a little at a time beneath its tide. He can't even bring himself to fight, just lies there under Moon Knight’s hand, and swallows hard.

“Whatever kind of bacta you're using, I want a truckload,” he says.

There's a soft snort. “The bacta’s helping, but so is Khonshu,” Moon Knight says. “But he’s not that generous. Don’t try to move too much.”

No wonder he’s not tied up, Cody thinks wryly. A shiny with a bad head cold could probably take him down right now as easy as breathing. With a breath, he looks up into Moon Knight’s eyes, and says, “Whatever you want from me, I'm not going to give it to you.”

Moon Knight blinks, frowns. His brow furrows like he’s _confused_ , like he can't image what he’d want from the marshal commander of one of the GAR’s biggest Corps.

“All right,” he says, but not like he understands. “Well, if you're going to be that way, fine.”

Cody stares at him, flat. “You _kidnapped_ me,” he snaps.

Moon Knight rolls his eyes. “You were going to bleed out before anyone could fix you,” he says, and rises to his feet, taking that wash of cooling relief with him. “Brace yourself. We’re landing in a few minutes.”

“Landing _where_?” Cody demands, and debates whether he wants to risk sitting up. If just moving hurt, sitting’s probably entirely out of the question.

Moon Knight casts him a sideways glance that Cody can't even begin to read, even without his strange mask in the way. “Tatooine,” he says, like it doesn’t matter at all that he’s giving that information up to a captive. “Jabba’s got a job for me.”

“Jabba,” Cody repeats, disgusted. Well. It’s good to know his captor’s level of morality. If he’s working for the Hutts, that’s a pretty good indication that Cody should shoot him and be done with it.

“He doesn’t care if I kill the other hires,” Moon Knight says, and turns, vanishing from Cody's line of sight. A moment later, the light in the ship changes, probably emerging from hyperspace, and Cody mutters a curse, directed at himself and Moon Knight in equal measure.

“Don’t take it personally,” a voice drawls above him, and Cody opens his eyes again to give Slick a dark look. The traitor just shrugs, arms folded over his chest as he leans against the wall by Cody's bed. “He’s just like that, from what I can tell.”

Cody doesn’t want to deal with this. “And of course a traitor would take up with him,” he says, on the edge of a growl.

Slick’s expression twists into something ugly. “Kiss my asteroid, _Commander_. At least Moon Knight sees the Jedi for what they are, even if you can't.”

“The Jedi are trying to keep as many of us alive as—”

“The _Jedi_ ,” Slick snarls, “are the karking _reason_ we’re soldiers in the first place! They're the ones who wanted us made, and they're the ones who use us as an army of obedient little slaves, and I'm _sick_ of it!”

Cody grinds his teeth, and the rage is just as hot as the pain was. Slick doesn’t have a single damned idea, hasn’t seen the risks the generals take to keep their men safe. Not just Obi-Wan and Skywalker, but _all_ the generals—he’s heard horror stories from Ponds and Wolffe and all the other commanders, and they're enough to turn his hair white. The generals put themselves in danger so that as many clones as possible survive. And given the fact that the Separatists think nothing of carpet-bombing worlds into rubble just to make a point, _someone_ has to fight them.

Better it be an army of clones from Mandalorian stock, trained for war from their very first moment, than volunteer civilians who’ve never held a blaster before. This way, the Republic at least has a chance of winning.

“I'm _glad_ the Jedi had us made,” he says, tight. “I want to exist, and I don’t mind serving a man like General Kenobi. I want the Seppies stopped, and if I have to fight to stop them, so be it. When the war is over—”

Slick scoffs, loud. “When the war is over, there’ll be another,” he says. “Or we’ll be decommissioned like the damned droids we’re fighting. If you can't figure that out, Commander, you're going to be the first casualty.”

The hum of the engines beneath the deck shifts abruptly, and the ship judders for a moment, then touches down with a hard thump that makes Cody hiss. It’s a piece of karking _junk_ , he decides, and slams his eyes closed, trying to ride the needle-sharp aches that flare through him. It takes a moment, and he hears Slick’s quiet grunt that’s all derision, the sound of his steps retreating. Lighter steps return, along with a dark shadow, and when Cody manages to focus on his surroundings again, it’s to the sight of Moon Knight standing before a towering stone statue he hadn’t seen before. It looks like a man, maybe, but with strange, ancient armor and a long cloak draped around it, the bottom half of its face veiled.

The eyes are the eeriest part of it, though. They glow in the shadows, silvery-white and burning, and Cody would almost swear they flicker to him for an instant before they slide back to Moon Knight.

“Khonshu,” Moon Knight murmurs, pressing the side of his fist to his forehead, and when he straightens, he pulls his strange mask over his head, concealing his face completely. The silver crescent on the brow glows like the statue’s eyes, and the fall of that unnervingly white cloak over his black bodysuit is jarring to look at against the muted metal of the ship’s interior.

“Want some backup?” Slick asks, and his eyes are narrowed, wary as he watches Moon Knight. “Jabba’s not exactly an easy boss.”

Moon Knight makes a sound of derision. “I'm only here to figure out where the closest slavers are,” he says. “Jabba’s job won't take long.”

“An execution?” Slick asks warily.

“Information drop,” Moon Knight corrects. “On Ventress.”

Playing all sides against the middle, Cody thinks, and grimaces. Dangerous. If he’s been doing it for a while, and no one’s heard of him, it means he’s _good_ at it, and Cody doesn’t like that at all.

“Still,” Slick says, and his frown is deep. Looks like worry, almost, and it makes Cody furious, because Slick should have worried about their brothers like that, but instead he got them _killed_.

Startlingly, Moon Knight pauses, looking at Slick, and Cody gets the impression that he’s raising his eyebrow behind the cover of his mask. “Jabba’s a big part of the slave trade,” Moon Knight offers after a moment. “Sure you want to see that?”

The concern in it kicks Cody in the ribs, and he stares, startled, at Moon Knight for a moment, not expecting that. But—Slick hating slavery is logical, reasonable, given how he sees himself.

Cody just hadn’t thought a man like Moon Knight would _care_. After all, he didn’t seem to even hesitate when he kidnapped Cody, tried to kill Obi-Wan with a bomb planted in their own base.

“Yeah,” Slick answers, lifting his chin. “You're going to use whatever info you get to kill the bastards, right?”

Moon Knight makes a sound of agreement, then turns and pushes open the door to a tiny room. There’s a bunk, a rack of blasters, and a few sets of armor that look like they come from different parts of the galaxy. Moon Knight grabs a black one with a heavy helmet and turns, tossing them to Slick.

“I used that infiltrating the Trade Federation,” he says, and pauses, mouth twisting into something rueful and bitter under his mask. “Called myself Black Spectre. In case anyone recognizes the armor.”

“Black Spectre, huh?” Slick eyes the helmet, then snorts. “I can manage that.” He sets it aside to strap the armor on, then reclaims it and settles it over his head, the visor lighting up subtly. Moon Knight looks him over for a long moment, and Cody can't read his body language, but he seems…conflicted.

“Good enough,” he offers finally, and shoves a blaster rifle into Slick’s hands. Turns, cloak flaring out around him, and tells Cody, “We’ll be back before you starve to death. don’t touch the statue.” Then he sweeps out, boots ringing on the ramp.

“ _Please_ touch the statue,” Slick says, and Cody can hear the smirk in his voice, even if he can't see it past the unfamiliar armor. “Been wanting to see what it does, actually.”

Cody flips him off, but Slick just laughs and follows Moon Knight. A moment later, the ramp closes, leaving Cody alone.

It would be a lot more satisfying if Cody thought he could make it to the controls without passing out, he decides wryly, and drops his head back against the bench.

Sith. This whole thing is a mess, and Cody _hates it_. Hates the thought of being taken, but even more hates that he doesn’t know _why_ he was taken. Maybe Moon Knight wants him for information, but—he didn’t seem to, and if he’s in tight with Ventress and Jabba _and_ the Trade Federation, it’s doubtful he actually needs what Cody knows.

But if that’s the case, why take him at all? Bait for Obi-Wan? That seems likely, especially since Moon Knight says he’s going to try again.

But…

The care for Slick is strange, in contrast. Getting him out, apparently on his own, and then warning him about slavers, and—

_A life for a life. No one life weighs more than another. You got a hundred and twelve troopers killed, Slick. You save a hundred and twelve lives, and then you’ve paid the debt._

It doesn’t make _sense_ , and Cody wants to throw something.

It’s probably futile, but Cody sets his jaw, then slowly, carefully shifts enough to get an elbow underneath him. He’s expecting the lance of pain this time, worse than a blaster bolt to the chest, and groans softly as he shifts back. bracing his shoulders against the wall helps a little, but the pull is still deeply unpleasant, and Cody's out of breath by the time he gets even partially upright. Sweating, clammy, he grunts and stops there, slumped against the metal and entirely disgusted with himself. Weak, he thinks, and closes his eyes for a moment. If he were stronger, he’d stand right the hell up, get to the controls, and steal the ship. The Republic’s probably looking for it; all he has to do is get back to friendly space and activate a homing beacon, then wait for someone to come pick him up.

As it is, Cody eyes the space between himself and the cockpit, and grimly resigns himself to not getting away just yet. If he can hardly get himself sitting without wanting to throw up, there’s no way he’s going to make it the twenty paces up to the front.

Instead, he turns his gaze to Moon Knight’s strange statue, eerie and looming. The light from beyond the viewscreen falls over it, around it, in a way that doesn’t quite seem natural, and Cody's skin crawls just looking at it.

“Just you and me, huh,” he mutters nevertheless, because talking to the creepy statue seems better than talking to himself.

And then, impossibly, undeniably, the statue’s head turns right towards him, as smooth a movement as if it’s flesh. Glowing eyes settle on Cody, and then the head cocks just faintly.

“ ** _I suppose it is_** ,” the statue says, and its voice is an impact, strangely weighty, echoing like it comes from somewhere vast and distant. Cody freezes, stock-still and staring, and it laughs as if his reaction is a delight. “ ** _Little soldier, how many souls do you think cry for vengeance against you?_** ”

Cody breathes in, breathes out, and doesn’t let himself waver. “If I'm doing my job right? All the Separatists,” he challenges. “Why, you keeping score for your master?”

The statue laughs again, rolling and clicking. It sounds like dry bones scattering over stone, and puts up every hair on the back of Cody's neck. “ ** _Master_** ,” it repeats, amused. “ ** _Oh, no, child. Moon Knight is my dearest servant, my disciple in all things._** ” It shifts, steps down off its pedestal, and if Cody tries to jam himself back into the wall behind him, he thinks just about anyone would understand. There’s nothing mechanical, nothing metal, just smooth stone moving like flesh, and Cody can feel _something_ tangled up around it, as heavy as durasteel. He digs his fingers into the bench and wishes desperately for his blaster as the thing approaches.

And then, abruptly, it stops, just close enough to loom over him. Its head cocks, a strangely birdlike motion, and under the veil Cody is absolutely sure it’s smiling.

“ ** _My son fights for the chaos of freedom_** ,” it says, and reaches out. Cody twitches, but doesn’t move, and it chuckles.

The touch of its hand is just as cool and soothing as Moon Knight’s was, and somehow that feels eerier than everything else.

“Chaos,” Cody repeats, and meets its strange, glowing gaze, foreign and predatory in a way he can't put into words. “You're turning the Separatists against each other to get chaos?”

The statue hums, then lifts its head, looking upward. “ ** _This planet has three moons_** ,” it says. “ ** _How charming._** ”

It takes Cody a second to process that. “ _Moons_?” he demands. “What the festering flack do moons have to do with anything?”

“ ** _Everything_** ,” the statue says, and the word burns along Cody's skin, heat and warmth and light, clear and blazing. “ ** _Little soldier, this world is a dark, dark thing_**.” It turns its face to him again, and just for an instant its face is a falcon’s head, a skeletal bird’s head, a man’s, all three at once and none at the same time. It reaches out, gloved fingers closing around Cody's wrist, and he can't contain his gasp at the heat of it, blazing desert and reflected sunlight on his skin. Beneath the gloves, the fingers he can feel are nothing but bone. “ ** _And I, child, am the god of light in the darkness._** ”

Cody's vision swims like a heat haze, and when it clears, the statue is back on its pedestal, staff in hand, cloak arranged just the way it was before.

But—

Cody's wrist burns, and he lifts it, turns it over. Set into his skin like a tattoo in silver ink, a crescent moon blazes in the low light, and it doesn’t fade when Cody scrubs his fingers over it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _planned_ to keep this a Serious Business chapter, and promptly stalled out. Then I remembered that I'm writing about a dumb idiot who likes to pick fights with things bigger than him running around a galaxy full of plasma swords and laser guns and alien slug gangsters, and got over myself.

Tatooine isn’t a place where Ponds spends a lot of time, which isn’t something he had previously counted as a blessing. He might start now, though, because one step out of the speeder and a gust of wind-blown sand hits him squarely in the face. Without the normal protection of his helmet, he gags and coughs, spluttering, and almost trips over his own feet. Before he can manage it, Mace catches his arm, pulling him to the side, and steps between him and the wind.

“Careful,” he says, and there’s a thread of concern in his voice. “All right?”

Ponds hacks up a little more sand and nods, rubbing at his watering eyes. “Sorry, sir,” he says. “The helmets have filters.”

“Just Mace,” the Jedi tells him quietly. “I don’t want anyone here looking twice at us, and ranks will draw attention more quickly than anything.” A pause, considering, and he reaches up, undoing one of the scarves he’s been using as a sash. “Take it,” he says, offering it to Ponds. “Wrap it around the bottom of your face. We’ll get you a mask if we have to stay here much longer.”

“Thank you, G—Mace.” Ponds takes it gladly, winding the dark fabric around his head. He’d wondered why Mace had decided to wear something other than his Jedi robes, for what is most certainly the first time Ponds has ever seen.

“Probably for the better, anyway,” Mace says, faintly dry. “Most visitors to Jabba’s palace are either traders or criminals, and you look like neither.”

Ponds makes a face, though he can’t precisely say he objects to not looking like a scumbag. “Thanks. As your bodyguard, shouldn’t I just look dangerous?”

“Anyone in the presence of a Hutt is either going to be too valuable to them to need a bodyguard, or too dangerous,” Mace says. “You’re not a grunt, you’re a partner.”

That itches, faintly. Ponds would feel better following Mace’s lead, especially in a situation so far out of his range of experience, but he grimaces and nods. “Unhappy partner,” he tells Mace, and thinks he catches a flicker of amusement in Mace’s expression.

“I could have said husband,” Mace tells him, and Ponds chokes on his next breath, feeling heat curl across his face.

“ _General_ ,” he says, scandalized, and Mace raises a cool eyebrow at him.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, amused. “And it’s Mace.”

Ponds stares at him, running through a list of every clone trooper in the 91st who could have potentially been in a situation to _pretend to be married to the general_. “I— _sir_?”

Mace isn’t smirking. _Quite_. “Wolffe is a gentleman,” he says mildly, and keeps moving.

Still trying to process that, Ponds follows.

If he’s potentially maybe plotting to stuff Wolffe in a footlocker the next time he sees him, it’s perfectly justified. His general’s honor is at stake here. And even more than that, no one asked _Ponds_. 

Since bodyguard is not an option here, and Ponds was mostly planning to stand around looking menacing, he sort of just hovers as Mace speaks to one of the guards at the door of Jabba’s palace. Waits, listening to the harsh consonants of whatever language Mace is speaking, and wonders a little just how many diplomatic missions his general’s been on. The Master of the Order is generally reserved for the very worst situations or the very best, where a show is needed, but—Mace must have been a regular Jedi before that. Must have worked his way up through the temple rankings on skill, even if it’s not quite like the army, and Ponds has to wonder how that went.

Clearly, given his ease here, this isn't the first undercover mission he’s taken. Probably isn't the first to visit a Hutt, either, since he knows what to expect.

“This way,” Mace says quietly, and motions Ponds forward as the guard pulls open a side door. The guard says something, and Mace returns it with a raised brow that makes the guard laugh, loud and chittering. Mace snorts, too, and offers a hand. The guard takes it, and Ponds can't actually see the credits disappearing between them even though he knows it’s happening.

“New friend?” he asks as the door swings closed behind them, leaving them in cool darkness, stark against the outside heat.

“I undertook a mission on their home planet once,” Mace says. “They were amused that I recognized their dialect.” He pauses at the intersection of three hallways, eyes narrowed, and then picks the left-hand one.

“You do a lot of missions like this?” Ponds asks, a little dry, because he’s used to seeing Mace on the battlefield or talking with senators, briefing the chancellor or making battle plans. Mace out of his Jedi robes is shocking enough; Mace undercover is just…odd.

Mace's snort is quiet, and he pulls his hood a little further over his face. “More than I can count,” he says. “Peacekeeping can be…involved work.”

Jarring, to remember that the Jedi were once nothing but peacekeepers. Guardians, more or less, of whatever peace the Senate wanted to maintain. In Ponds’s mind they're soldiers meant for a war, just like the clones they lead. Just as beholden to the Senate, it seems sometimes. The Senate was the one to mobilize Ponds and his brothers, after all, and the Jedi stepped in to lead them when it became clear there wasn’t another choice.

“Hopefully this goes like a peacekeeping mission, then,” Ponds starts, only to stop short at Mace's grimace. “Gen—Mace?”

“Hopefully it doesn’t,” Mace says, as dry as the sands outside. “Jedi luck should be a curse all its own.”

Ponds lets out a sound of amusement before he can help himself. “Like 212th luck?”

“Just like.” Another branching tunnel, and Mace pauses again, looking down each of the four corridors for a long moment before heading straight. Ponds follows, but he takes a glance to the left, towards a burst of noise and voices, and catches a glimpse of a dancer for half an instant.

“Think we passed Jabba’s court,” he says, not a criticism. Closer to a question, really, because Mace seems to know where he’s going.

“Yes,” Mace says without hesitation. “I'm not looking for Jabba, though.”

Ponds doesn’t ask what they _are_ looking for; Jedi rarely have straight answers about things like that, and Ponds doesn’t mind it nearly as much as some of his brothers. Wolffe in particular—

Wolffe who was somehow in the position to _pretend to be married_ , Ponds remembers abruptly, and has to grit his teeth. Married to _General Mace Windu_. Ponds didn’t hear anything about that mission. In fact, last time he and Wolffe met, Wolffe didn’t even spare Mace a second glance. Maybe that’s because they were under fire at the time, but—

It irks, that’s all. Just a little. Ponds doesn’t care, but it just seems insulting, somehow.

“Ponds,” Mace says, and it’s an odd enough tone to make Ponds jerk back around to his general, mildly alarmed. He’s come to a stop in the corridor, eyes distant, and when Ponds makes an affirmative sound Mace asks, “How close is the nearest deployment?”

Ponds blinks, then frowns, running through a list. Given the distribution of their Recon troops with other units, he’s usually got a pretty good idea of all troop positions around the galaxy. “That would be the 327th, with General Secura. They're two systems over.”

Mace considers this for a long moment, then keeps moving, lengthening his stride slightly. He’s a tall man, and Ponds has to hurry a little to keep up. “There’s something on this planet,” he says shortly. “I thought it was a Jedi, but it isn't.”

Shit. There’s a sinking feeling in Ponds chest, and he thinks _Jedi luck indeed_. “Dangerous?”

“Potentially.” Mace frowns, turns down a short, curving hall, and steps out into a small bar area. There's a droid sweeping the floor, a couple of Twi’leks sharing drinks at one of the tables, a Chagrian by the far wall, but it’s otherwise deserted. It’s got a good view into the back of Jabba’s court, though, and Ponds takes a careful look at the edge of the Hutt he can see, the press of bodies in front of him, and decides that he’d much rather stick back here.

“Charming,” he mutters, and Mace snorts, adjusting his hood.

“I'm going to speak with the bodyguards,” he says. “Be careful.”

 _Sir, that sounds like a bad idea_ , Ponds wants to say, but before he can even open his mouth Mace is slipping into the crowd, startlingly easy to lose despite his height and presence. For a moment Ponds debates going after him, but—Mace would have told him to come if he wanted assistance, and his _be careful_ probably meant _stay here_.

Unhappy about it, Ponds finds a spot of wall that’s empty and mostly gives him line of sight to Mace, then puts his back to it and tries to look unapproachable. There's an itch at the back of his neck, unease that’s curling into something heavier, and he forces himself to breath through it. Glances around the wide hall that makes up Jabba’s audience chamber, and tries not to grimace too visibly at the sight of a slave dancer perched on the edge of the Jabba’s dais. A Zabrak, looking furious, and Ponds _knows_ that slavery’s illegal in the Republic, but here on the edge of Hutt space anything goes. Tatooine isn't a Republic planet, and there’s nothing the Jedi or the GAR can do here.

And then, bright and sweet and jarring against the tangle of bastards in the audience hall, Ponds hears laughter. It’s startling enough to make him twitch, and he turns sharply, looking back towards the hallways that wind deeper into the palace. For a moment he can't see anything, but then a flicker of white catches his attention, pulls his gaze into the shadows past the edge of the bar.

There are children there. Several species, but all young, all dirty but grinning, grouped tightly around a man in white with a strange mask over his face. As Ponds watches, he makes a gesture of surprised realization and reaches for a little Rodian girl. His hand swipes down, then twists, and a sweet appears between his fingers. The girl lets out a sound of delight and grabs for it, and the man chuckles, then produces three more pieces. The other children seize them eagerly, then fall over each other to babble at him in a tangle of Basic and other languages.

Quickly, the man raises his hands, fending them off, but can't quite manage it before the Twi’lek boy is hanging on his shoulders, the Trandoshan kid is clutching his other arm, and the Human girl has two handfuls of his cloak. His gesture is all exasperation, and the Human grins, gap-toothed and bright, and says something Ponds can't quite catch. The man tilts his head, listening solemnly, and then nods. The Trandoshan goes next, spreading knobby fingers as they talk, and jabs a finger towards the Zabrak dancer.

Faintly, Ponds can see the man stiffen, and he grunts. Reaches under his draping cloak, then produces more sweets. The Twi’lek boy huffs, clearly offended, but the man just shakes his head and murmurs something, then rises to his feet, shedding children as he goes. The Rodian girl waves, and with a tilt of his head the man in white waves back, then steps away. Before he can get more than a pace, though, the Human girl grabs him from one side, the Twi’lek boy from the other, and they let themselves be dragged along as the man leaves the shadowed corner.

“—keeps yelling at Master Jabba,” the Human is saying as they near, and Ponds tries not to look like he’s staring. “He laughs at her a lot but that just makes her madder.”

“Sometimes I think he’s going to stop laughing,” the Twi’lek says, lekku curling in a way Ponds knows means distress. “Master Jabba got a new rancor, too, and if he gets tired of the yelling he’s going to feed her to it. That’s what happened to my sister.”

The man grunts, and beneath the mask Ponds thinks he can see his mouth pull down. “Jabba keeps her in his rooms?” he asks.

The girl looks at the boy, who shrugs. “Maybe,” she says. “My mom works in the kitchens but she never has me bring the lady food, so I don’t know.”

Another grunt, but the man is still frowning. “Do you remember who sold her?”

“Some Human,” the boy says, lekku flicking in version of a shrug. “He had a red ship.”

“I think he was coming from Mos Eisley,” the girl agrees. She pauses, expression screwing up, and then tugs insistently on the man’s sleeve. “Hey, are we still your Shadow Council even if we don’t know?”

From the way the Twi’lek boy’s eyes widen, this is a deeply important matter. He tugs, too, and says, “We can try to find out more, I can ask the others in the pens if you want.”

The man pauses, tilting his head like he’s considering carefully. “If you knew, would you tell me?” he asks gravely.

“’Course,” the boy says, like he’s offended at the implication that he wouldn’t.

“Yeah,” the girl says haughtily. “ _Obviously_.”

“Then you're still my Shadow Council,” the man confirms.

“Does that mean we get more candy?” the boy asks, cunning.

With a huff, the man pretends to try and shake them off. “You already cleaned me out, sand-rats,” he says. “Get lost.”

The girl laughs, so it’s clearly not an order she takes seriously. “But you can pull more out of the air,” she says logically.

“My magic needs a while to recharge,” the man says dryly. “Scram.”

The boy wrinkles his nose, lekku curling with doubt. “One of the cooks told me that only Jedi have magic,” he accuses. “Are you a Jedi?”

“I _eat_ Jedi,” the man counters. “And I’ll eat you too if you don’t let go.”

Giggling, the girl disengages and scrambles back to a safe distance. “If we find out who the trader is, do we get more candy?” she asks.

“I’ll think about it,” the man tells her, and growls at the boy. Instantly, he leaps off, grabbing the girl, and they bolt away, still giggling.

With a sigh, the man straightens, tugging his cloak around him. Tilts his head, studying the audience chamber for a moment, and then turns and stops short, staring right at Ponds.

Ponds doesn’t flinch at being caught looking. Stays where he is, body language carefully relaxed, and says, “Cute kids.”

“Useful,” the man says after a moment, and takes a step to the side, settling against the wall just out of arm’s reach. The glow of his eyes in the shadows is unnerving, but Ponds doesn’t move as the man looks him over carefully.

“Slaves?” Ponds asks.

The man’s grimace is clear, even behind the mask. “Yeah. Like hell Jabba’s going to waste money paying people when he could just buy them outright.”

Relief washes through Ponds; not everyone here is all right with the Hutts’ slavery, at least. “Then you're not looking to buy Jabba’s dancer for yourself,” he says evenly.

The man snorts, derisive. “No. But if there’s someone new trading slaves, I want to know.”

Across the room, motion catches Ponds’s eye, and he glances up to where Mace is speaking with a Rodian. A moment to make sure nothing’s gone wrong, and Ponds takes a breath. “I haven’t heard anything,” he says.

With a shrug, the man folds his arms across his chest, but Ponds catches the flicker of his eyes between Ponds himself and Mace across the room. They narrow, calculating, but he doesn’t say anything except, “I’ll figure it out.”

Ponds doesn’t push; it’s enough to know that someone’s keeping an eye on the slave trade out here. His attention goes back to Mace as the Jedi breaks away from the Rodian, heading across the room towards him. Relief is a sharp thing in his chest, and he pushes away from the wall, steps forward to meet him.

“ _Find anything_?” he asks quietly in Mando’a. It’s not a common language across the galaxy, but given their frequent contact with their clone battalions, most of the generals have managed to pick it up.

Mace pauses, gaze flickering to the man in white for half an instant, and then smoothly answers in the same tongue, “ _Nothing beyond a sudden and desperate need to wash the slime off my skin. Jabba’s court is worse than a trash compactor. At least garbage doesn’t try to curry favors_.”

Ponds snorts, not surprised. Hutts tend to attract the worst people in the galaxy. “ _We staying?_ ”

“ _For the night. I can sense something, but…it’s concealed_.” Mace inclines his head to the man in white, then pauses. Looks him over, eyes narrowing, and says, “A bounty hunter. Jabba seems to have the market cornered on people of your profession.”

The man shrugs. “It’s a living.” The drag of his gaze over Mace is more wary than assessing, and something like strangled alarm prickles across Ponds’s skin. He wants to step between the stranger and his general, but—

Then the man turns his head, as if he’s spotted something more interesting, and the weight of near-alarm is gone. Ponds breathes out, almost surprised he can, as the man pushes up and steps away. “Excuse me,” he says shortly, and pushes into the crowd, heading for a figure in black armor near the far wall. They pause together, then turn and disappear deeper into the palace, and Ponds watches them go warily.

“Ponds?” Mace asks quietly.

“He was trying to get information about a new slave trader out of some kids,” Ponds answers, equally soft. “Gave them candy and let them hang all over him.”

“Hm.” Mace turns away, then says, “I need to find somewhere quiet to meditate. The Force is clouded here.”

Ponds follows him into the darkness, boots quiet on the sand. “Is that shatterpoint you were looking for here?”

“Yes,” Mace says without glancing back. “Your friend in white is the center of it. There are a hundred different connections that touch him, and something in the very near future hinges on his actions.”

Ponds trips, catches himself, keeps moving. “On a _bounty hunter_?” he demands, offended by the very idea.

Mace snorts, amused. “Jango Fett was a bounty hunter,” he reminds Ponds. “And he was the one that the creation of the clone armies hinged on.”

And Mace was the one to kill him. The most dangerous bounty hunter in the known universe, and Ponds’s general defeated him in under five minutes. When some of the other commanders heard of his assignment, Ponds could _feel_ their jealousy. There isn't a clone in the whole army who wouldn’t be honored to fight under General Windu.

“Still,” he says, forging on. “I've never heard of him before, and looking like that, I think he’d have stuck out in someone’s memory.”

“Maybe he’s better than most at being circumspect,” Mace offers, dry, and steps sideways off the path into a small, dusty room. There's one window at ground-level, but all that’s visible is yellow sand and bleached-out sky, and Ponds doesn’t linger on it. He follows Mace in, closing the door behind them, and keys the lock. It won't stop anyone with a key, but it should at least give them warning if anyone is coming.

Deliberately, he puts his back to the door, half his attention trained on the hall and the rest on his general as Mace sinks down cross-legged, eyes closing. He’s kept watch while Mace has meditated before, but usually on battlefields, in the thick of things and in spare moments when they can find a quiet spot. Every time, it feels like trust, because Mace isn't a man who leaves himself vulnerable, but this is the closest Ponds has seen to it.

“If that bounty hunter’s the shatterpoint, are you going to take him out?” Ponds asks quietly.

Mace doesn’t open his eyes. “Not ever shatterpoint needs to be broken,” he says. “Some of them need to be protected, kept intact. Senator Amidala is one of those.” A pause, and then he lets out a slow breath, settling. Ponds isn't anything close to Force sensitive, but he always gets a strange, tingling feeling that washes across his skin when Mace sinks himself into the Force. “I just need to find out which kind he is.”

Ponds grimaces. He doesn’t want to have to kill someone who’s kind to kids, especially slave kids, but if the man in white’s the kind of shatterpoint that will break the war, Ponds won't hesitate. That’s his duty, after all. He knows Mace won't hesitate, either, which is more of a comfort than it probably should be.

The Jedi and the clones have a lot in common. They’re both willing to do whatever needs to be done, and Ponds watches Mace and thinks that it’s lucky they ended up with the Jedi as their generals, instead of regular soldiers. The Jedi understand duty better than anyone, and that’s worth a hell of a lot in Ponds’s estimation.

“Moon Knight!” Jabba rumbles, gleefully pleased at the sight of him, and waves a hand at his translator. The man immediately scrambles to his feet, hurrying over, and bends down to listen to the Hutt.

“Master Jabba greets you, Moon Knight,” the translator offers after a moment. “And hopes that you come with the gift of information for him that you promised.”

Marc doesn’t let his hand twitch towards the crescent darts on his belt, even though he wants to, particularly with the Zabrak woman curled up as far from Jabba as she can get. Tatooine has three moons; if Marc threw them at Jabba with all his strength, he could probably manage to get them all the way into something delicate and vital. It would be satisfying. It would also be fun.

This isn't the first criminal organization Marc's infiltrated, though. Far from it—he always thought that was one of the reasons Captain America picked him for his Secret Avengers, because he had a history of going undercover and getting into places where only criminals were welcome. He knows how to contain himself, as irritating as it is.

Besides, there’s always lots of cannon fodder hanging around a Hutt, and Jabba thinks Marc picking off his minions is funny. There are worse ways to be undercover.

“Of course I have it,” Marc says, and pulls the case with the datachip from his belt. Tosses it, lightly, across the remaining space, and watches the translator fumble to catch it. “All Ventress’s recent movements, and as many plays she’s made as I could find.”

Jabba chuckles, watching his translator hand the information off, and says something in rolling Huttese. Marc twitches a little; he’s been meaning to learn it, because he hates having to work through a translator, but there’s a shortage of teachers who won't just stick a knife in his back.

“Jabba thanks you for your prompt service,” the translator offers. “And most graciously offers you a room in his palace. For a small fee, of course.”

“Of course,” Marc repeats, bland. Gangsters are all the same, whether they're small-time maggia in New York or Hutts on Tatooine. “Thank you for the offer, Jabba, but I’ll sleep on my ship.”

Jabba’s rumbling response is amused agreement, and he waves Marc away, attention shifting to the next person waiting to see him. Marc goes without argument, Slick shadowing him as they slip into the press around Jabba’s platform. Marc makes for the wall, not liking to have his back to anyone in here; it’s a good way to get dead, from what he’s seen.

“Hutts,” Slick mutters as they find a spot. “They're all the same.”

Marc doesn’t answer, just turns his head, scanning the people present. A few of them are familiar, and he recognizes a spice smuggler who owes him money and is carefully not making eye contact, but no immediately evident bodies to pick off for Khonshu.

In New York Marc would usually just wander around a bad neighborhood for a while, or follow the Punisher around. This is probably the Tatooine equivalent.

“If anyone picks a fight, they're mine,” Marc says, and ignores the way the dark helmet turns towards him. Giving Slick the space equivalent of Spectre’s armor is probably stupid, given how the last two incarnations of Black Spectre have turned out, but—

For all Carson Knowles was a villain, he was one who was betrayed by everything around him, treated like filth and expected to take it. Marc's never blamed him for snapping, the first time _or_ the second. Maybe Slick taking the mantle is a chance for someone to actually do right by it for once.

Or maybe Marc's just thinking too hard about it, as always.

“Not going to share?” Slick asks sardonically, and his hands are tight around his blaster, but he’s not shooting yet.

“Not with you,” Marc says dryly. Khonshu isn't here that he can see, which is mildly surprising; usually the god’s picking targets like the room’s a buffet. It’s mildly suspicious, too, because Marc doesn’t trust Khonshu further than he can see him, and usually not even that far.

Still, the kids gave him a good place to start. Jabba’s dancer is new, furious, and probably going to end up a victim of his sadistic tastes within the month, knowing the Hutt. Marc wants to get her out before he tries anything else, and hopefully she can point him to whoever sold her.

“Watch the Zabrak,” he tells Slick. “She’s the first rescue.”

Slick makes a low, angry sound. “Needs it,” he says disgustedly. “Sithing hells, I’d have strangled myself with that chain.”

Marc doesn’t answer. Zabrak are proud, ferocious; he’s sure Jabba’s expected whatever she’s tried. A crescent dart should be all that’s necessary to sever the chain holding her, and if there's a distraction, Jabba might not even notice. Hastur knows the way out through the kitchens, and that should be enough to get her out of Jabba’s grasp and to Marc's ship.

He just needs to pick a fight with someone bigger than him, that’s all. And if Marc's good at one thing, it’s definitely that.

Pulling a dart from his belt, he presses it into Slick’s gloved hand, then says, “If you were a spy, I assume you know how to be stealthy?”

“I can manage,” slick drawls, but he palms the dart. “It’ll cut through metal?”

Marc inclines his head. “I’ll arrange a way out for you. Just get into the back halls and keep moving until you're on the ship.”

Slick touches two fingers to his brow in sardonic salute. “And you’ll be doing what while I'm running for my life?”

“Getting punched,” Marc says succinctly, and heads back towards the deserted bar to find his Shadow Council and bribe them into helping arrange a jailbreak.


	7. Chapter 7

A shift of movement brightening the shadows announces Khonshu's return from whatever trouble he’s probably been instigating, and he looks far too pleased with himself for there _not_ to be fallout coming Marc's way.

Suspicious, Marc stares at him for a long moment, then straightens from where Hastur was showing him a rough map of the tunnels. “As long as you're sure you can get out,” he tells her.

Hastur grins at him, showing the gap where she’s missing a tooth. “I'm on your Shadow Council, of course I can.”

“So can I,” Rysi protests, lekku twitching with annoyance. “You need me to open the door, anyway.”

Hastur pulls a face, but before she can protest Marc puts his hands on their heads and shoves lightly. “Stop it,” he says. “Work together or don’t bother.”

Entirely unimpressed, Rysi sticks his tongue out at Marc. Hastur giggles, and she crosses her eyes at him an instant later.

Marc sighs, aggrieved, and tries not to smile as he fishes in his pockets for the last of his candy. He drops it into the waiting hands, then says sternly, “Take it and go.”

“Yes, sir!” Hastur says cheerfully, and she grabs Rysi by the arm. They both take off running, ducking through the doorway and into the crowd, and Marc snorts. A sweep of his hand gets rid of the map, and he straightens and looks at Khonshu.

“Killed anyone I need to worry about?” he asks dryly.

Khonshu laughs, circling him with gliding steps. He’s in his child form now, the one Marc rarely sees—a little Egyptian boy with a side-lock, menat necklace, and a crook and flail in his hands. “ ** _You are my hands, my knight,_** ” he says, gleeful. “ ** _Why would I take your duty from you?_** ”

That glee means nothing good for Marc's stress levels, Marc thinks with resignation. Whatever Khonshu did, it’s most definitely going to come back to bite Marc in the ass sooner rather than later. Still, if Khonshu isn't already rubbing his face in it, there’s no way he’s going to actually _tell_ Marc what he did, so Marc just sighs, annoyed, and pulls his hood back up.

“I need to kill someone,” he says. “Which heart is darkest?”

“ ** _Not going to ask who is the most hated?_** ” Khonshu asks, mock disappointment in his voice.

Marc snorts. “In here? Whoever is the most hated is probably one of the good guys. Pick, or I’ll do it for you.”

Khonshu laughs, and that bone-rattle laugh from a child’s mouth would probably be unsettling to anyone who hasn’t been dealing with Khonshu for years. As it is, Marc just narrows his eyes at him, and Khonshu leans in, gaze all shining silver in the low light. “ ** _What if I want the most hated?_** ” he asks, intent.

“Tough luck,” Marc says, unimpressed. “You get the most evil. Pick.”

Khonshu sighs like a put-upon child and points out into Jabba’s audience chamber. Relieved that he didn’t put up more of a fight, Marc breathes out, turns to look—

And stops dead, hands twitching to strangle his asshole of a god.

“That,” he hisses, “is a _Wookie_.”

Khonshu's rattling laughter is delighted. “ ** _A Wookie bandit, yes,_** ” he agrees gleefully. “ ** _Responsible for many lost lives, and even more souls passed into slavery. Bring me his heart, my knight._** ”

“I hate you,” Marc tells him flatly, and checks for his truncheon, then his crescent darts. Breathes in, rolls his shoulders to loosen them, and mutters, “If I die, I expect you to make coming back hurt less this time.”

“ ** _But if it doesn’t hurt, how will you learn your lesson?_** ” Khonshu asks, and then he’s gone with a rustle of feathers on sand.

Marc tells himself very firmly that he isn't going to dump his god’s statue into a black hole, if only because Khonshu will be absolutely insufferable afterwards. Instead, he settles for flipping him off aggressively, then turning on his heel and stalking into the other room. He’s got enough of a reputation here—for killing Jabba’s other guests, mostly—that most of them get out of his way immediately, but Marc doesn’t even glance at the beings scattering out of his path.

Deeper in the crowd, along the back wall and close to the Zabrak dancer, Marc catches a glimpse of Slick, keeping his head down as he stays out of the line of fire. One more masked, intimidating bounty hunter isn't going to be noticed, so as long as he doesn’t get himself seen, he should be fine.

Fingering the darts attached to his bracers, Marc eyes the lights, then smiles thinly. He drops the knives into his hands, flings them out with a subtle flick of his wrists, and ducks.

In a shower of glass and sparks, the lights burst, and darkness falls in an instant. Not complete, not even close, but—

There are plenty of shadows, and as cries sound, Marc rises, cloak glowing like moonlight, truncheon in hand. He doesn’t know much Shyriiwook, but insults, at least, are always an easy thing to learn and then remember.

“Hey,” he says, and grabs the Wookie’s arm, shoving him around with a touch more strength than a Human would normally have. “ _Your mother’s bald, and you have fleas. All the trees you sleep in break from shame._ ”

There isn't even a hesitation. The Wookie roars something that’s probably equally insulting and grabs for Marc's throat.

“Fuck this,” Marc mutters, and drops. He sweeps out a foot, slamming the heel of his boot into the Wookie’s ankle, then diving forward and right between his legs as he howls. There are more shouts near them, people scrambling to get away in the darkness, and Marc darts behind the spice smuggler who’s trying to bolt, just as the Wookie snarls and grabs for him again. With a shriek, the smuggler is lifted clear off his feet, tossed into a wall, and Marc hisses in annoyance.

“That bastard owes me money. Can't you wait until he’s paid me to kill him?” he snaps, and the Wookie calls him the son of a whore and punches him square in the face.

It feels a little like getting hit by the Sentry, and Marc is _not_ a fan. He goes down, vision swimming, but—

It’s not the hardest he’s ever been hit. The Sun King was worse.

Marc climbs back to his feet, staggering upright just as the Wookie is turning away. Curls one hand into a fist, closes his eyes, and feels the press of the moons above the planet. Three of them, two full and one waning, more than Earth ever had. More than enough, too, and he raises his fists like the prizefighter he used to be, sets his feet, and says, “Hey, ugly. We’re not done.”

The Wookie pauses, startled, and turns. Demands something, and Marc can guess what.

“I guess you just don’t hit as hard as you think you do,” he says, taunting, and the Wookie growls. He advances a step, looming, one hand almost at the huge blaster he’s carrying, and Marc smirks.

“My turn,” he says, and swings.

The Wookie is laughing when he takes the punch.

Half a second later he’s airborne, and he’s definitely not laughing.

With a roar, the Wookie rises, lunges, and Marc twists in to meet him. Hears Khonshu laugh, dry bones in an empty vessel, shifting sand and feathers in moonlight, and Marc grabs for a crescent dart even as he feels another one fly, somewhere in the darkness. No time to look, no space to, but—

Slick has the dancer, and Marc's had about enough of a bastard who captures people to sell as slaves.

Flipping the dart around, he steps in quick, takes a punch to the chest that almost knocks him off his feet, and feels the Wookie grab his arm. There's a wrench, like the bandit is about to rip it clean off, but Marc leaps, twists, uses the grip as leverage to kick the Wookie square in the face. He roars, recoiling, and Marc twists, brings the dart up, and drives it home through fur and flesh with a snarl.

The Wookie crumples, and Marc tries not to visibly wheeze for breath as he lands in a crouch, doesn’t clutch his ribs or look towards where Slick must have disappeared. Takes a moment, trying not to feel the massive spreading bruise across his face or his dented diaphragm, and—

A hand catches his elbow, steadying him as he rises, and Marc glances sideways at the man from earlier, face mostly covered by deep purple silk. His eyes are brown, and his skin is dark, but Marc can't make out much more than that and the blaster at his hip.

“You okay?” the man asks.

“Fine,” Marc says, winded but standing, and that’s victory enough for now. He glances down at the Wookie’s body, and sees a shadow like a falcon perched on his chest, right over his heart.

Khonshu looks back, an entire looming universe behind his eyes, and then leans down to take his prize from the body.

Marc looks away. He’s seen it enough times.

“You took a punch from a Wookie,” the stranger says, incredulous. “More than one. Aren’t you human?”

Marc snorts, but doesn’t answer. He’s not entirely sure anymore, after all. Having Khonshu tapped into his soul for so long might actually make him something else entirely. “I _feel_ like I took a punch from a Wookie,” he says, and lets the man support him.

“Ponds,” a voice says, low, and a moment later another man is on Marc's other side, a tall black man with black robes trimmed in purple, slightly sandy but otherwise clearly high-end. He doesn’t hesitate to take Marc's other arm, though, and together he and Ponds haul Marc back to upright just as lights kindle.

With a low, rumbling laugh, Jabba leans forward on his dais, waving a hand at Marc. A translator scrambles to catch up, and quickly says, “Lord Jabba says you fight well, Moon Knight.”

Marc tugs free of Ponds and his friend, then faces Jabba. “He owed me money,” he says flatly. “And wouldn’t pay.”

Jabba laughs, apparently delighted by this conflict, and waves him off. Tugs on the dancer’s chain—

With a clatter, the cut link tumbles free, and the loose end rattles back to pool in front of Jabba in a puddle of silver, cleanly sheared off.

At Marc's left, Ponds sucks in a sharp breath, and Marc grabs him, grabs his friend, and hauls them back into the shadows. There’s the edge of a tunnel behind them, and he ducks into it, just as Jabba’s loud voice shakes the room and sends his court scurrying. Not about to stick around to test how well Jabba can draw conclusions, Marc turns sharply down a long hall, then off it, into a servant’s passage, and stops there, letting go of the two other men.

“Keep your heads down,” he warns curtly. “Jabba will be looking to take this out on people.”

The black man is watching him, expression considering, and after a long moment he inclines his head. “You staged a distraction,” he says, so quiet that no one beyond them will hear it.

“Coincidence,” Marc says, pointed, and steps back. Looks between them, some instinct from his long-ago days before Moon Knight prickling at him, and then says, “You're not here as guests.” They look a little like mercenaries, he thinks, but—that’s not quite right. They don’t have the feel of it. Don’t feel wicked at all, now that Marc is looking at them clearly.

“That makes two of us,” the black man says, and inclines his head to Marc. It’s almost a bow. “Mace.”

Bony fingers close over Marc's shoulder, and Khonshu hisses with something like glee. “ ** _My knight,_** ” he croons. “ ** _Do you feel it? Can you tell how many people cry for revenge against this man? Bring me his heart._** ”

Marc frowns, flicking a glance at Khonshu and then back at Mace. Pauses, eyes narrowing, and—

There's a difference between wicked hearts and those that evil people want vengeance against. Not a lot, sometimes—the sense of them gets clouded, confused, and Khonshu doesn’t care enough to make it clearer. But…somehow Marc suspects that this man’s heart is the latter, rather than the former, and he doesn’t appreciate Khonshu trying to conflate them. It makes him mildly suspicious how many times it’s happened before and Marc simply hasn’t caught it.

It’s not as if Khonshu being an unreliable bastard is anything even remotely new, after all.

Thankfully, Marc's had a hell of a lot of practice ignoring Khonshu over the years, and he doesn’t waver. “Moon Knight,” he returns, drawing his cloak around himself a little more. Slick should be almost back at the ship by now, assuming Hastur was able to lead him out quickly enough. Marc needs to get there and deal with the Zabrak woman, find whoever sold her, and claim a few hearts for Khonshu. That will put the asshole in a better mood for their next attempt on Kenobi.

The low rumble of Jabba’s voice rises in anger behind them, and Marc grimaces. Glances that direction, then away, and asks, “You have a way out? It might be best to leave now, and come back later if you have business.”

Ponds and Mace exchange glances, and after a long moment Ponds says, “We don’t, not without going back through the audience chamber. Is there a back way?”

Marc watches them both for a moment, then jerks his head. “Yeah. Follow me,” he says, and turns, ignoring Khonshu's displeased hiss in his ear.

Mace and Ponds keep up, three paces behind him, and Marc pointedly doesn’t turn to look at the bone-pale figure in the darkness, stalking them through the shadows. Khonshu can be a bastard all he wants; there are plenty of hearts in this universe, his for the taking, and he should know by now that Marc is too much of a stubborn bastard to just hand over whatever he wants without judging for himself.

Marc's never been a blind believer, no matter how much he _does_ believe. He like to think it’s what makes him valuable. At least more so than a fanatic like the Sun King.

The way out that runs through the kitchens is a straight shot, entirely out of sight for most of the court. This one is a lot more circuitous, passing the edges of populated areas far too many times for Marc to have risked Slick and the dancer to it. It’s familiar, at least, and Marc moves quickly, hardly the only one fleeing Jabba’s wrath over the missing woman.

“Come here a lot?” Ponds asks from behind him, casting a glance across an intersection of halls to watch a pair of slaves duck into a side room and out of sight. One of them waves to Marc, and he lifts a hand in return—Rysi’s caretaker, he thinks, now that the kid’s sister is dead—but doesn’t pause.

“There’s always work,” he tells Ponds, which is true. If Jabba doesn’t have a job for him, it’s easy enough to pick out a few hearts for Khonshu, or follow a slaver back to their den.

Ponds makes a quiet sound, thoughtful, and a moment later he’s on Marc's other side, keeping in step with him. “If you hate slavery,” he says mildly, “I wouldn’t think Jabba would be the kind of employer you’d go for.”

Ponds is sharp behind that veil. Marc snorts, sweeping his cloak around himself, and says, “A credit’s a credit.”

“That would have been more convincing ten minutes ago,” Ponds points out, but when Marc gives him a narrow look, he raises his hands. “It just doesn’t seem like your type of thing, that’s all.”

Mace, behind them, is perfectly silent, watchful in a way that makes the back of Marc's neck prickle.

“You don’t know my type,” Marc tells Ponds flatly, and makes a turn for the back entrance. There's a whole crowd filtering out, and Marc keeps back from them, letting the guards there deal with the press before he tries to get any closer.

“No," Ponds agrees, easygoing, and Marc is sure he’s smiling behind his veil. “But I'm pretty sure those kids wouldn’t be half as fond of you as they seem to be if you were the person Jabba generally likes.”

“I bribed them with candy. You can't trust their taste anymore.” Marc keeps his eyes fixed ahead, watching the last of the crowd filter through. The guards turn to look at them next, and Marc raises a hand in greeting. The Zeltron woman on the right nods in return, eyes narrowing faintly as she looks them over.

“Moon Knight,” she says. “True you took out Jabba’s favorite Wookie?”

“His face pissed me off,” Marc says, and she snorts.

“Not a favorite anymore, apparently,” the Kerestian with her says, and keys the gate open. “One of these days you're going to piss Jabba off and no one will save you.”

“My god will save me,” Marc says, and believes it. Khonshu always brings him back. Even at their worst, when everything is falling apart and Marc's hit rock-bottom, Khonshu always brings him back.

The Zeltron rolls her eyes, but she looks amused. Her gaze flickers towards Mace and Ponds, and she pauses, then asks, “These two with you, Moon Knight?”

That’s a dangerous question. Marc opens his mouth, no idea how to answer, but Ponds takes a deliberate step to the side and nods to her.

“We’re unfamiliar with Jabba’s halls, so he showed us the way when we met,” he says.

Putting himself in front of Mace, Marc thinks, eyeing them. Husbands, then, maybe. Business partners in this part of the galaxy don’t tend to go that far for each other.

The guards exchange glances, but are apparently unconcerned, because the Kerestian waves them through. “Good hunting, Moon Knight,” they offer.

“Good luck surviving Jabba,” Marc tells them in return, and they sigh, agreeing, but wave Marc, Mace, and Ponds through.

Outside, the evening wind is picking up, sending gusts of sand across the dunes, and Marc grimaces, pulling his hood down a little further. His ship isn't far, but—

Desert planets always put him a little too much in mind of that painful, half-dead trek across the desert after Bushman dumped him, the way he was called towards Khonshu's temple without ever knowing that was where his feet were being guided.

Or maybe it was all just chance, and Marc wasn’t called anywhere, just happened to catch Khonshu's attention when he died at his statue’s feet. He’s never gotten a straight answer from the bastard, and Khonshu is the god of time; the fact that Marc remembers him from childhood could mean everything, or it could mean nothing at all.

With a low chuckle, the bone-pale shadow shifts, falling in on Marc's other side as a man in armor, crescent-topped staff in one hand. “ ** _You trust so easily, my son,_** ” Khonshu says.

That’s a bad sign, potentially. Marc looks at Khonshu, then turns his head just enough to look back at Mace and Ponds, and thinks, with a healthy dose of annoyed resignation, that this is _definitely_ not going to go as smoothly as he’d like.

“Cryptic bastard,” he mutters, and Khonshu laughs, entirely pleased with himself. Marc can't see his smirk behind the veil, but he knows it’s there.

“What was that?” Ponds asks from behind him, and Marc strangles a huff. Would rather strangle Khonshu, but—well. It’s never worked before.

“The landing strip is just up ahead,” he says instead, and ignores his god. “There are krayt dragons in the dunes around here, and Jabba feeds his prisoners to them sometimes. Be careful.”

“Nice of Jabba to keep the local wildlife fed,” Ponds says, all weary amusement, and reaches up, adjusting his headwrap. For a moment Marc thinks he’s going to pull it off, but instead he just shifts it slightly.

“There aren’t any close to us, I believe,” Mace says calmly, and he touches Ponds’s arm, gives him a look that’s speaking. Ponds nods in return, falling back a step so they're shoulder to shoulder, and Marc watches them suspiciously. Khonshu's words aren’t exactly something to take at face value, but he usually enjoys Marc having some idea of the trouble he’s about to crash into headlong. It makes it more entertaining for him that way.

Marc looks at them, then at the top of the dune hiding the one strip of solid land in the area. Wonders, a little darkly, whether he should just confront them now, or wait for whatever surprise they pull on him.

A falcon swoops low across the dune, and behind it, one of Tatooine’s three moons is rising.

Marc stops, boots planted in the sand, and takes a breath. Turns, sharp, to face Ponds and Mace, and looks from one to the other before he says, “What do you want?”

There's a moment of silence, careful, assessing. Mace and Ponds look at each other, and then Ponds shifts back just slightly, ceding ground. Smoothly, like it’s practiced, Mace steps into the gap, and says, “We came here looking for information.”

They're definitely not Jabba’s usual crowd, Marc thinks, eyes narrowing. “On what?”

There's a long pause, and then Mace reaches up, folding his hood back. “On you,” he says, “I believe.”

 _I believe_. That doesn’t exactly make it sound like a mission they were sent on. Wary, Marc takes a step back, until he’s out of lunging range, and says, “Want to elaborate on that?”

“You're important to the war effort,” Mace says, perfectly calm, perfectly even. “Your presence will shift it in some way.”

That prickle of unease is spreading down Marc's spine. “Oh?” he asks warily.

Mace inclines his head, though his eyes don’t leave Marc. “You're the connection point for so many threads that I can't count them,” he says. “I hope, for all of our sakes, that you make the right decisions when the time comes.”

Something cold spreads through Marc's chest, and he takes a step back. “Khonshu—” he starts, but at the same moment a figure in black armor appears at the crest of the dune, then freezes.

There's one half-second of absolute silence, and then Slick throws himself forward into motion, blaster coming up, visor flashing to life. “Moon Knight!” he shouts. “Jedi!”

Oh. So _that’s_ why.

Marc doesn’t hesitate. He lunges, right for Mace, but Ponds bodily tackles him out of the way, slamming him into the sand and trying to pin his hands. Marc has wrestled with Steve Rogers, though, and Ponds isn't nearly as big of a pain in the ass. He twists, gets a knee in Ponds chest, and throws him off just as a blaster fires.

In the same moment, a lightsaber ignites with a hissing snap, and a purple blade blocks Slick’s shot. Mace straightens, eyes on Slick as he plants his feet and takes aim again, but Marc doesn’t have time to worry. Ponds sweeps his feet out from under him, throwing him down into the sand, and Marc hisses, rolls, rises. He kicks Ponds in the face, but Ponds gets an arm up in time, shoves through, then grabs Marc's arm when he throws a punch and ducks. He wrenches Marc's arm up behind him hard, and Marc yelps—

“Let him go, Commander!” Slick snarls, reaching up to wrench his helmet off, and Marc can hear Ponds’s startled breath, the instant when his hand loosens. Without hesitating, he hurls himself forward, sliding out of Ponds’s grip, and turns.

The headwrap is twisted, halfway to falling off, and it’s easy to see that Ponds’s face is exactly the same as Slick’s. Another clone, and Marc feels something like rage rise as Ponds takes two long steps back, putting himself in front of Mace.

“Going to die for your Jedi?” he asks, watching Ponds’s face.

“If you're willing to kill me to get to him, I guess I am,” Ponds says calmly, but his eyes are all dark certainty.

It’s Mace's expression that flickers, though. He says, “Ponds,” like it’s an order, but Ponds still doesn’t move.

“I don’t know why you have a brother with you,” Ponds says to Marc, steady, unmoving, “but if you're a threat to General Windu, I won't tolerate it.”

Marc's eyes narrow, but he can't find so much as a hint of hesitation in Ponds’s face. “The Jedi are your commanders,” he says, “and you never had a choice in being soldiers.”

Startlingly, Ponds smiles, and it’s a crooked, wry thing, but there's still humor in it. “No,” he agrees. “We didn’t. But the Jedi didn’t have a choice in becoming generals, either.”

Startled, Marc stills. It’s definitely the first time he's heard _that_. With a flicker of suspicion, he looks from Ponds to Mace, then takes a step back.

No choice to be generals. If the Jedi are the commanding officers, how the hell can that be?

“Moon Knight,” Mace says, advancing a step, and the purple blade of his lightsaber casts strange shadows over his face. “I meant what I said. You're a connection point in this war. I have to bring you in, but I don’t want to hurt you. This is your chance to surrender peacefully.”

“Surrender,” Marc says, like the word is distasteful, and takes another step back. the gusting wind whirls the sand up, and the air currents are tricky, but—

“The Republic will treat you fairly,” Mace says, though his lightsaber hasn’t wavered, some of his attention still on Slick and his blaster. “I’ll see to it personally.”

“Sorry,” Marc says. “I’d rather kiss a krayt dragon than listen to Khonshu bitch about being in prison again, so I'm going to have to take a rain check.” One more step back—

The next gust hits, and Marc lets his cloak snap open, the metal in it going stiff. The wind lifts Marc right off his feet, and it’s not nearly the same as a controlled glide off a building, but it whirls him up to the top of the dune as Ponds shouts. A blaster fires, but it skims Marc's cloak as he drops, the wings of it folding. He hits the sand on his feet, right next to Slick, and snaps, “Run.”

Slick doesn’t hesitate. He flings something down the dune, then turns and bolts back towards the ship as Marc leaps again. Behind them, an explosion sounds, a wave of sand collapsing like an avalanche right over Mace and Ponds’s heads, and Marc swoops down towards the landing strip, then drops, hitting the ground at a run. The ramp of the ship is down, and the Zabrak dancer is planted in the center of it, expression furious, Marc's heaviest blaster in her hands. She levels it at him without pause, but Slick shouts something, and her eyes widen. She wrenches it aside, and Marc throws himself past her, aiming for the controls even as he hears Slick’s boots on the ramp.

“What the karking hell is _High General Windu_ doing on farking _Tatooine_?” Slick snarls, and a moment later he throws himself into the copilot’s seat, leaning forward to help with the startup.

“High General?” Marc asks, though he doesn’t take his eyes off the controls.

Slick grunts. “Master of the whole damn Jedi Order,” he says disgustedly. “Where the hell—this thing is a farking trash heap—”

Rolling his eyes, Marc reaches over his side, hits the correct switch, and feels the engines rumble to life. The ramp closes, and he glances back at the Zabrak woman as she approaches, still clutching the blaster.

“All right?” he asks her.

She bares her teeth at him, and he can't tell whether it’s a smile or not. “Get this collar off me and I will be.”

Marc checks the systems one more time, then leaves them to Slick and rises, takes a step to meet her. Slumped against the wall, Cody is watching him with a tight expression, but Marc ignores him, raising a hand. “Trust me?” he asks.

The woman laughs, all sharp edges. “No,” she says bluntly, but still turns to give Marc her back. “But Black Spectre said you were the one who decided to free me, so I won't kill you outright.”

“Fair enough,” Marc allows, a little amused, and carefully gets his hands on the edges of her collar where they're bolted together. Takes a breath, feeling the pull of the moon above, and then jerks.

The bolt wrenches, and the mooring gives, and Marc steps back as the woman’s hands fly up to her throat, jerking the collar off and flinging it away into the shadows. Her snarl is all pleasure and satisfaction, and she rounds on Marc with fury in her eyes that isn't directed at him.

“Clothes,” she orders. “Sack-cloth, if you have it.”

Loose as possible, she means. Marc nods, then heads for the little bunk room, digging though the clutter until he comes up with his loosest set of spares, left over from one of Jake's smuggling jobs. Jake won't mind, Marc is sure. He always likes helping those in need.

Tossing them to the woman, Marc steps back into the main part of the ship, then asks, “Got a name?”

“Vasi,” she says, pulling the shirt over her head. A moment later, the top Jabba dressed her in drops to the floor, and she stomps on it hard, then kicks it in the same direction as the collar. “Who the hells are you?”

“Moon Knight,” Marc says, and looks away as she strips off the skirt as well. “If I give you credits and drop you in Republic space, can you make it back home?”

“Iridonia is a common port, I won't have any trouble,” Vasi says determinedly, and then pauses. Eyes the blaster at her feet, then Marc, and Marc snorts.

“It’s yours,” he says. “In return for one thing.”

Vasi’s eyes narrow sharply, and she raises her head, horns catching the light. “Oh?” she demands, a threat.

Marc holds her gaze. “The name of whatever rat sold you,” he says.

Vasi’s lips pull back, and her grin is all sharp teeth and fury. “Agreed,” she says, and picks up the blaster, cradling it in her hands. “And I’ll give you his location if you feed me, too.”

“I think we can work something out,” Marc says, and heads for where he keeps the rations without looking back.

There are eyes on him, Cody's as well as Vasi’s. That’s fine. He has more important things to focus on right now than whatever the hell Cody wants to think of him.


End file.
